I think about the morning of your glory, About the morning of your days too, when You stirred just like a demon from your slumber And were a god to men. I think of when your eyebrows came together Over the burning torches of your eyes, Of how the ancient blood's eternal lava Rushed through your arteries. I think of fingers - very long - inside The wavy hair, about all Eyes that did thirst for you in alleys And in the dining-halls. About the hearts too, which - you were too young then - You did not have the time to read, About the times, when solely in your honor The moon had shined and dimmed. I think about a hall in semi-darkness, About the velvet, into lace inclined, About the poems we would have told each other, You - yours, I - mine. I also think about the remaining From your lips and your eyes handful of dust. About all eyes, that are now in the graveyard About them and us. By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ilya Shambat https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambat
