Marina Ivanova Tsvetaeva

Go find yourself naive women friends

who haven't checked miracles by number.

I know that Venus was produced by hand,

I'm a craftsman, I know the craft:

from the highest solemn muteness

down to the thorough degradation of the soul:

here's the whole divine staircase -- from:

my breath -- to: do not breathe!

Andate a trovarvi donne naïve per amiche

e non abbiano contato i miracoli per numero.

Io so che Venus è stata fatta a mano,

sono  artigiano, conosco l’arte:

dal più elevato solenne essere muti

giù fino all’intero digradare dell’anima:

ecco tutta la divina scala – da:

mio respiro – a : non respirare!

You walk, and look like me,

your eyes directed down.

I also used to lower mine!

Hey you, passer by, stop!

Read - when you've gathered

a bouquet of buttercups and poppies,

that I was called Marina

and how old I was.

Don't think that this is a grave,

that I will appear, scary...

I myself loved too much 

to laugh, when I shouldn't have!

And the blood would come to my face

and my hair was curly...

You passer by, I also was!

You passer by, stop!

Break yourself off a wild stem

and after it a berry, -

no wild strawberry is larger or sweeter

than one from a graveyard.

Only don't stand gloomily,

dropping your head on your chest,

think about me easily,

as easily then forget!

How the sun's ray shines upon you!

You're all covered in golden dust...

- Don't let it disturb you,

my voice from underground.

1913

 Des Herzens Woge schaumte nicht

        so schon empor, und wurde Geist,

        wenn nicht der alte stumme Fels,

        das Schicksal, ihr entgegenstande.

 (Friedrich Hölderlin, Hyperion, Kapitel 11)

(L’onda del cuore non schiumerebbe

già così fino qua  a diventare spirito,

se la vecchia muta roccia,

il destino, non la contrastasse.)

What can I do, blind and outcast

in a world where all are fathered and sighted,

where passions go over anathemas

as if over embankments! Where a lament 

is called - sniffles!

What can I do, by rib and Providence

singing! - Like a wire! Sunburn! Siberia!

I travel my delusions - like a bridge!

With their weightlessness

in a world of weights.

What can I do, singer and firstborn,

in a world where the blackest - is gray!

Where inspiration is kept, as in a thermos!

With this infinity

in a finite world?

You who loved me with the falseness 

of truth - and the truth of lies.

You who loved me - beyond

anything! - Over the edge!

You who loved me beyond

time - Right hand, wave!

You love me no more:

The truth in five words.

1923