By Marina Tsvetaeva
You, passing me by, going far
Not to mine and quiet a doubtful charms, -
If you would know, how much fire,
How much life, spent for nothing,
And what a heroic flare you have
On the sudden rustle or shadow...
And, how my heart was incinerated
This, for nothing, spent gunpowder.
Oh, the trains, flying in the night,
Which take my dreams on the station...
However, I understand, that you'd not find
Or identify me - even together...
Even if you'd known, why my speeches are rude,
Sharp in the smoke of my sigarette, -
How much a dark and terrible mood
You could find in my light-haired head.
17 may 1913