You walk, and look like me
You walk, and look like me,
Your eyes directed down.
I also used to lower mine!
Hey you, passer by, stop!
Read-when you've gathered
A bouquet of buttercups and poppies,
That I was called Marina
And how old I was.
Don't think that this is a grave,
That I will appear,scary...
I myself loved too much
To laugh, when I shouldn't have!
And the blood would come to my face
And my hair was curly...
You passer by, I also was!
You passer by, stop!
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poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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In Paris
Homes reach the stars, the sky's below,
The land in smoke to it is near.
Inside the big and happy Paris
Remains the secretive despair.
The evening boulevards are noisy,
Gone are the sundown's final rays,
And there are couples everywhere
Trembling of lips, daring of eyes.
I'm here alone. To trunk of chestnut
It is so nice one's head to lean!
And like in the abandoned Moscow
In heart weep verses of Rostand.
Paris at night is sad and alien,
Dear to the heart is madness gone!
I'm going home, there's vial of sorrow
And tender portrait of someone.
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poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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To Mother
In the old Strauss waltz for the first time
We had listened to your quiet call,
Since then all the living things are alien
And the knocking of the clock consoles.
We, like you, are gladly greeting sunsets,
And are drunk on nearness of the end.
All, with which on better nights we're wealthy
Is put in the hearts by your own hand.
Bowing to a child's dreams with no tire.
(Only crescent looked in them indeed
Without you)! You have led your kids past
Bitter lifetime of the thoughts and deeds.
From the early age the sad one's close to us,
Laughter bores and home we left behind..
Our ship not in good times left the harbor
And it sails by will of every wind!
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poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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Much Like Me
Much like me, you make your way forward,
Walking with downturned eyes.
Well, I too kept mine lowered.
Passer-by, stop here, please.
Read, when you've picked your nosegay
Of henbane and poppy flowers,
That I was once called Marina,
And discover how old I was.
Don't think that there's any grave here,
Or that I'll come and throw you out ...
I myself was too much given
To laughing when one ought not.
The blood hurtled to my complexion,
My curls wound in flourishes ...
I was, passer-by, I existed!
Passer-by, stop here, please.
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poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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Terminal Silhouette
I know you not and in no way
I want to lose starry illusions
With such a face in worst confusion
People are loyal to a ray.
All that the fate has marked for grave
Have such closed-off face instead.
You are a page that was not read
And no, you will not be a slave.
A slave with such a face? Oh no!
There is no error here by chance.
Your slender figure and your glance
Will be secret to many, I know.
A heavy bracelet of your hair
Under the thrown-over scarf
(You'd do with guitar or a harp)
And your pale face, as pale as air.
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poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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Lady With Camelias
Your whole way with shining evil's coal
Margaret, they all do bravely judge.
What's your fault? The body sinned as such,
Innocent you have retained your soul.
To all people it's the same, I know,
To all nodded with a blurry smile.
And with this sorrowful semi-smile
You have wept yourself long time ago.
Who will know? Whose hand will help along?
No exception to the rule, one thing entrances!
They eternally await embraces,
They eternally await, 'I'm thirsty! Be my own!'
Day and night the bane of false confessions..
Day and night, tomorrow, and once more!
Spoke more eloquently than the word
Your dark glance, the martyr's dark expression.
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poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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Books In Red Binding
From heaven of a childhood life
A farewell to me you're sending,
The ever-loyal dear friends
Within a red worn down binding.
On learning homework from school,
At once I ran to see you yet.
'It's late' - 'Please, Mother, ten more lines' -
But happily she did forget.
The fires flicker in a lamp..
How nice it is to read at home!
To sounds of Greeg, Schumann and Kui
I learned about the fate of Tom.
It's dark.. the air is growing cold..
Tom's full of faith in Becky's joy.
Within the darkness of the cave
Wanders with torch Indian Joe..
A cemetery.. owl is screaming..
(I'm scared) And now through hassocks flies
The punctilious widow's foster-child,
Like in a barrel Diogenes.
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poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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