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

No cause, no clues.

From the evening hall only to us nodded this image,
Only we - you and me - to it pitiful verses bore.
What has bound us stronger than love has bound others
Is that we adore.

But the gust was escaped, and tenderly somebody approached,
He who could not have prayed, but did love. To judge do not hurry!
Like the most tender note in awakening of the soul
You're memorable to me.

In this sorrowful soul you had wandered, like in open house..
(In our house, in the spring)... Forgotten don't call me!
All my minutes are filled with you, except for love -
The most melancholy.




In the Winter


Behind the walls once again
Bells' whining is heard.
Several streets between us,
And several words!
The city in darkness sleeps,
Silver sickle appears,
The falling snow scatters
Your collar with stars.
Do your wounds ail for a long time?
Do the calls wound of the past?
Teases the new, seductive,
And shining glance.

(Blue or brown?) It matters more than
Wise pages to the heart!
Rime turns to white the
Eyelashes' darts...
Behind the walls, bell's whining
Lacks strength, is barely heard.
Several streets between us,
And several words!
Clear crescent is leaning into
Books' and poets' souls,
Into your downy collar
In sheets is pouring snow.