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

You are a page that was not read
And no, you will not be a slave.

A slave with such a face? Oh no!
There is no error here by chance.
Your slender figure and your glance
Will be secret to many, I know.

A heavy bracelet of your hair
Under the thrown-over scarf
(You'd do with guitar or a harp)
And your pale face, as pale as air.

I know you not. And possibly
You're kind and moderate like all.
Maybe! May these be ravings all!
For only raving ones may be!

Perhaps the day is not so far
When I will fathom what's unseemly...
But this to err - it is so relieving!
It is so easy yet to err!

Touching the scarf with a light hand,
There where the whistles shrilly blow.
This is the you that I will know
Where you just like a riddle stand.




In Paris


Homes reach the stars, the sky's below,
The land in smoke to it is near.
Inside the big and happy Paris
Remains the secretive despair.

The evening boulevards are noisy,
Gone are the sundown's final rays,
And there are couples everywhere
Trembling of lips, daring of eyes.

I'm here alone. To trunk of chestnut
It is so nice one's head to lean!
And like in the abandoned Moscow
In heart weep verses of Rostand.

Paris at night is sad and alien,