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

Ancestor was a coward.

That, having sold soul to Devil for a pence
At midnight he did not go
By cemetery; that he carried a knife
Behind a boot-leg, so.

That many a time from a corner he jumped
Like a cat, agile and thin..
And somehow I understood that he did
Not play on a violin.

And somehow all was not fitting to him,
Like in the summer - last year's snow.
Such a violinist my ancestor was.
I became such a poet - so.



x x x


Sleep the rattles and dogs of neighbors -
Not one voice, not one car.
O lover, do not investigate
Why I am parting the bar.

New moon to a midnight is going:
Hour of monks - and of sharp-eyed birds,
Hour of youths and conspirators,
Hour of lovers and murderers.

Here each person's thought is double,
Here, rider, hurry the horse.
We will pass, not jingling with bracelets
And not tinkling with a purse.

Now the houses part with houses,
On the square there is talk and dance..
Here, before a small Mother of God,
Cordoba did its love pronounce.

Here, upon a stone porch,
By the fountain we'll sit silently,
Where you first for my face were aiming
With wolf's eyes.

Rustling of silk around the knees,
Smell of rose and a lock of hair..
O, beloved one - see, she's here -