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

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