"Marina Tsvetaeva. The Best (translated by Ilya Shambat) (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора Love me, love me, I proclaim.
From the curve of your lips with one glance I see their forced arrogance, By above brows jutting out: This heart storms, no doubt. With a black silk armor - dress, Voice with gypsy hoarseness, Until pain I like all things in thee, Even that you are not a beauty. Beauty, in summer won't wilt! Not a flower - you're a stalk made of steel, Meaner than mean, sharper than sharp, dear, From what island born away here? With a rod you do wonders, with a fan - In each bone and in each vein, In the form of each finger full of rage - Woman's tenderness, boy's courage. Parrying all ridicules with verse I open for you and the Universe All that's ready in you then 8 Under sun the eyes are burning, Day's not equal day. I tell you for that occasion If I would betray: Whose lips I had not been kissing In the hour of love, To whom I upon black midnight Did not scarily vow - To live, like a flower blooms, like Mother tells a child, Never with an eye to go To any side.. See that cross made of cypress? It's familiar to you. All will wake - you only whistle Under my window. |
|
|