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

I decided all things on the way
Imagining your pose:
Am I, or am I not, to bring
To you a rose?

And I was readying a phrase,
Forgotten afterward, Alas -
And suddenly - no wait! - at once!
That self-same house.

With many stories, looking bored...
I count the windows, here's the porch.
Unwittingly, cross on the neck
The hands do search.

I count the gray steps, that are leading
Me to the flame.
I ring the bell. Here for thinking.
There is no time.

I but remember roar of thunder
And my two hands, as cold as ice.
I call for you. - He is at home,
He'll come at once.


-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
May with my youth the years bear out
What's unforgotten, one and all.
The paint upon the colored wallpaper
I will recall.

And glass-beads of the lampshade, and
The sound of some strange voices and
Port Arthur and the dull clock beating
Overhead.

The moment, long, in the least measure -
Like hour. But steps from afar.
And you have entered. Here's the squeaking
Of open door.


-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
And there at once was fascination.
He leaned down, simple like a king.
And two stars in awe and terror
Were glimmering.

And squinting them, so huge, you did not