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

And every cry!

What is ahead? What failure lies before me?
In all deceit, all is forbidden.
Thus, crying, with dear childhood I parted
At age fifeen.




Drum


To rock a cradle this morning in May?
Proud neck in lasso, like some?
Distaff to jailbird, to herder - a shawn,
To me - a drum.

Role of a woman's not dear to me:
I fear not wounds, but boredom.
Gives to me everything - honor and might -
This my drum.

So many countries I have not seen!
Trees are in bloom, stands the sun..
Kill all the sorrow around you in flight,
Beat, my drum!

Beat, now you drummer! Ahead of all!
All else - deceit for the dumb!
Why does it conquer the heart on the way.
How is the drum?




Autumn in Tarus


Clear morning is not hot, lightly
You run through the meadow.
Down the Oka pulls a barge,
Very slow.

Several words without willing
You are repeating still.
Somewhere in the field is ringing
Weakly the bell.

Ring in the field? On the meadow?