"Marina Tsvetaeva. The Best (translated by Ilya Shambat) (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

My sight in childhood slipped away there,
It's tormented by the towns.
Talk and the shining hall bore me indeed
And the world wears me down.

Someone lit candles before the Virgin.
(Does the sick healing await?)
This is the reason I'm silent midst you:
I'm different all the way.

Sweet is the weakness of arms relaxed,
Light to me here is all woe.
Dark-leafed ivy, as if they were friends
Embraced the stones;

Grass has blossomed here all the way
Like almond, white and pink...
I need no joy. I don't pity the world:
I'm Angelique.




From Four till Seven


Like in a mirror, there's shade in the heart
I'm bored alone - and with men...
Slowly drags the light of the day
From four till seven!
Everybody is cruel in the dusk,
Don't go to people - they'll lie.
Fingers have wound into a knot
The kerchief. I want to cry.
Only don't torture me so,
If you hurt me I'll forgive!
From four till seven o'clock
I endlessly grieve.




Easter in April


Eggs on a plate warmed the soul with delight
And ringing of bells.
What is more radiant than Easter in April,
People, pray tell?