Вы, идущие мимо меня
You, walking past me and racing
After charms that you’ll hardly attain, -
If you knew how much fire is wasted,
How much life is wasted in vain!
And what flames, so courageously rash,
An occasional shade can evoke,
And how my heart was burnt into ash
By this useless gunpowder smoke.
O, the trains leaving terminals nightly,
Carrying sleep wherever they go …
Then again, I know, it’s unlikely
That you’d know, even if you could know -
Why my speeches are sharp and brief
In the smoke of my cigarette, -
How much dark and menacing grief
Is concealed in my golden-haired head.
May 17, 1913
By Marina Tsvetaeva
Translation by Andrey Kneller
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