128

by Marina Tsvetaeva

In this huge town of mine—night.
the sleepy home I leave—behind.
And people think: wife, daughter—
But I’m aware of just this—night.

The July wind sweeps my way
And somewhere in a window faintly—music.
Ah, now ‘till dawn let a wind gust—blow
Through my chest’s thin walls—into my chest.

There is a black poplar, and in the window—light,
And bells ringing in the tower, and in the hand—a flower.
And this one step following—no one,
And this one shadow—but me—no.

Lights-like strings of golden beads,
Night leaflets in the mouth—taste.
Deliver me from daily bonds,
Friends, realize, of me—you’ll dream.

Moscow, July 17, 1916

Share via
Copy link
Powered by Social Snap