Marina Tsvetaeva

It’s not for male virgins — to judge

Passion.

There were tears — larger than eyes.

Time is short, but it is ours!”

Time! I will pass you!

“But I loved her

As forty thousand brothers

Could not have loved her!”

How’s life with another’s woman,

From this world? Loved — for being made from a rib?

Doesn’t shame lash your brow

How is your life, my dear? Is it any harder,

Or is it the same as for me with another?

It is pain, as familiar to the eyes as the palm,

As to lips —

The name of one’s own child.

Ah: is a heart being torn apart,

The syllable on which you die.

I like that you’re lovesick not with me,

I like that I’m not lovesick with you,

That the heavy earthly sphere

Will never float off from beneath our feet.