Meeting
by Marina Tsvetaeva
The evening smoke there covered place,
The humble cars were running to somewhere,
Suddenly the semi-child's anemone's face,
Has flickered in a window of train.
A shadow - on eyelids. As a crown
The curls were lying... I suppressed
The inner cry: I understood for now,
That dead had risen up by our pray.
With that girl in the window dark
I frequently met in my dreamy leas -
The image in the railway station's hubbub -
But why was she so absolutely sad?
What was she seeking - the transparent silhouette?
Perhaps, even in sky - there's no any happiness?