You walk, somewhat like myself,
Hunched, and not looking up.
I used to lower my eyes as well!
Stop here, passerby, stop!
Having gathered your flowers in a
Bouquet, read the stone by the gate -
It will say I was named Marina,
And I lived to the following date.
It’s a grave, but don’t treat it as such,
My spirit won’t rise to haunt you…
I, myself, loved laughing too much
Whenever I wasn’t supposed to!
My hair was once curled and twisted
And blood used to rush to my face.
Hey, passerby, I also existed!
Hey, passerby, slow your pace!
Stop here and pluck a wild stem
And after that – pick this berry:
No berries are sweeter than
The ones from a cemetery.
Only don’t stand there sighing,
And please do not hang your head.
But rather think of me lightly
And afterward, likewise, forget.
How the sun shines down upon you!
Its rays set the dust aglow.
And don’t let my voice disturb you
And vex you from down below.
May 3, 1913
By Marina Tsvetaeva
Translation by Andrey Kneller