(translated from Russian)
You shudder – and a mountain' off
Of the mind, and the soul' – up.
Oh, cliffs of my grief, don't you scoff
At my mountain chant.
This black hole will yawn unsealed
My cliffy grief, let me sing
At the mountaintop.
That mountain was like a recruit's
***** dominating the battlefield.
That mountain wouldn't excuse
Kissing outside of the sacrament.
That mountain wished to insert
An ocean into the auricle.
With a sudden "hurray!", it would burst,
All belligerent and inexorable.
That mountain was like a roar
Of thunder. One should be wary of Titans!
At the mountain base, you saw
The very last of its houses.
That giant was larger than life!
For life, God charges awfully!
Cliffs of the grief started high
In the mountain. A town was belòw it.
Parnassus or Sinai would put
This barrack-like, ordinary
Hillock to shame – Dress! Shoot!
Why did then this octobery,
Rather than mayish, sight
Seem to me a delight?
Once too meek and obtainable,
Heaven, expose your barbs!
The mountain came assailing
With obstacles of its scarps.
As if the grip of Leviathan
Clutching the skirt of my dress,
Was shrubbery of the mountain,
It rustled along: "You won't pass!"
Heaven was nowise flattering,
It was one gale of draft!
The mountain pulled us and flàttened us,
It threw its weight right and left.
We forged on and dumbfounded
That giant with our assault.
How could this happen? We found the
Saint as though at fault...
Granate seed of Persephone,
You flash when frosts brace the land...
I will hardly stop remembering
Our mouths poised to blend.
That seed' Persephone's tragedy!
I remember your lips set ajar
And your eyelashes shooting jaggedly,
And the golden prong of the star...
Not an illusion or fantasy
Is passion, and far from a bluff
It is! If only we came to here
To be just lowlifes of love!
Oh, if only we grappled with
Just that, a hillock, a ****.
(They say, it's the longing for precipice
That brings to the mountaintop).
These brown tangles of heathery,
These languishing pines and moss...
Delirious, delectable heathenry!
– Here, take me now! All yours...
Alas! Quiet graces of family
And prattling of young' still above...
For on this earth we are meant to be
Celestials, not lowlifes, of love!
The mountain mourned (it is lime
With what mountains normally mourn).
It bitterly mourned the sublime
Tenderness of our ethereal morns.
The mountain mourned our friendship:
The unshakeable kinship of lips.
Also, it passingly mentioned
The requital for tears, not deeds.
The mountain spoke of this life
Belittlingly, as of a flea market of hearts.
It shed streams of its snowy lime
Over Hagar's exile and her child's.
"This game is a demon's scheming,
It's nonentity, nonsense, mirage",
The mountain said. We were quietly heeding
Orations of the mountainous judge.
The mountain mourned that boiling ruby
Blood would turn, after all, into mud.
Also, the mountain said that it wouldn't
Allow our being apart.
The mountain mourned that every of Romes
Would rhyme in the end with "rammed".
The mountain said that we are to home
With others (I don't envy them).
The mountain mourned a terrible oath,
Which is late to loathe. It said
Of the Gordian knot as overmuch old,
The one between passion and debt.
The mountain mourned, it felt sorry
For us. Later! When, above eyes,
There'll be no "memento", neither "mori",
Just mare. Tomorrow, we'll realize.
A sound... as if somebody is, like, crying,
Close by (you also heard?).
The mountain mourned our separate climbing
Down, through mounts of dirt,
Into life, of which everyone knows:
A marketplace – barrack – "no, please".
Also, the mountain said that all poems
Of mountains – are written – like this.
That mountain was like the ****
Of Atlas, a groaning Titan.
That mountain is going to pump
The pride of our town wherе
We, passionate, go on the spree
Headlong, resisting nothingness!
Alongside the frowning steep
And the dozen evangelists,
You shall honor my somber cave!
(Been there, waves were skipping in!)
You remember last moves of the game
At the township's periphery?
That mountain was, like, worlds!
Gods treat their images vengefully!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The grief has cliffed from the words
Of the mountain. It weighs on me gravestonely.
Years will pass, and the mountainous
**** will be replaced with a slab.
Its summit will host summerhouses
And cornfields will claim its lap.
They say that the air is frèsh on the
Skirts, and life there isn't as hard.
They will just go on pàtchworking,
Reworking its rocky facàde.
You’ll hungrily spoon all my pàsses and
Fork over all my ravines!
For people are needy of houses
And happiness to be therein,
Happiness, love with no coinage
Or putting yourself on the rack!
You’re a woman! So stòmach this!
(There was happiness, on looking back,
With him) Love' to be fancy-free,
With no separation or knife.
The place wherein we lived happily –
Now ruins – will see a new life
Of men and women. Àll they will
Do in that blissful air is sin.
Tradesters at grass will be chowing
Their riches and, in-between,
Crafting new moves, new lèvels such
That houses be choke-full.
For people, at least some fellows,
Want storks atop roofs as a rule.
The weight of those foundations
Will not obscure the play.
Good at memorization,
Unlike the going astray,
The mountain will bide. Cottagers
Will fail to patch over clefts
And see: not a household hurst it is –
A crater ready to blast.
Grapevines can't chain Vesuvius,
The giant would rip apart yarn.
Madness of lips alone would fuse
Rock into lava. Your barns,
Together with cornfields and households
Will lavishly taste its wrath.
Your daughters will turn into harlots and
Sons will be poets and stuff.
Daughter, you raise a bàstard slip!
Son, she-gipsies' all yours!
Let no place for your vices be
On me, you, fleshly-borns!
Harder than granite and fìrmer than
The dying man's oath is this:
Let you not taste, unworthy ones,
My mountainly, heavenly bliss.
Hark! The unforeseen hour
Will strike, for your brood to see
How mountainous is the mountain,
How mortal – the third mortal sin!
by Marina Tsvetaeva