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? ???? ????, ????????!
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?? ?????? ?? ???? ??????,
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??? ????? ??-??? ?????.
You’re in my way. I used to
Walk so, without looking up.
Stop, passerby! Don’t keep going.
I beg and I pray you — stop!
You’ll read, as you lay the glowing
Poppies on the mound of grass:
Marina. And then more slowly:
The dates — my birth and death.
Yes, there is a grave, but leave it
Of my haunting you need have no fear.
I too, you can well believe it,
Once laughed among my tears.
Freely flows the blood through my veins,
The locks wrap round my face.
Stop, passerby! Can’t you feel it?
I too, passerby, once lived.
A strawberry. Pick and eat it!
It’s there, very near the ground.
No berries are ever sweeter
Then those in a graveyard found.
But no gloom, please, no tightly
Closed lips, do not brood or fret.
Think lightly on me, and lightly
My name, passerby, forget.
The sun’s dust-like beams caress you,
Your shoulders and head they lave.
Please don’t let the voice distress you
That comes to you from grave.
—Marina Tsvetaeva, ?????, ?? ???? ??????? (1913)(I. Zheleznova transl. with modifications by S.H.)
