"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
Stranger with forehead of Beethoven!


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.