Dortoire in spring (Dormitory) (возм-но не совсем правильное написание по-фр.)
by Marina Tsvetaeva
Oh, the spring dreams which were in a dortoire,
Oh, the roving among the sleeping people,
And the sound of steps, purposely loud,
Dreams about the fire, an anguish.
Look, the sleeping faces are nervous,
Gas is turned lower by someone's care,
Air is spicy, as if somewhat poisoned,
Dortoire - is like a hothouse great.
Silent are the sighs. In the view of a ghostly light
All are pale. From anguish or waiting,
Or from lie of the guessings past,
But the sleeping children are restless.
Plaits are long, but the hands are so thin!
The sudden ravings:"From the enemy's cannons
The turky troops..." The icons are fixed,
Bending over the pillow's snow.
Someone's crying in dream, not in obstinacy...
How light are that childish sobs!
Girl is dreaming about the old lime-trees
And the dead and pale mother lost.
In the soul a tall tale is blossoming.
Who does wander there? Late to fall asleep?
Or that's a flower, risen up again terribly
In the hothouse, where was killed in spring?