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On your dirk you etched «Marina» when rising for the strife. I was the first and only one in all your splendid life. I see the army boxcar hell, that night, your radiant face… Your curl I scattered to the winds, your patch I laid in a secret place…

[1960s]

656. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Кто уцелел — умрет, кто мертв — воспрянет…»

Не who survived will die, who died — will rise, and when recalling olden days, a son will ask «Where were you?» — like a roll of thunder, so will answer thunder, «On the Don». «What did you do?» — «We merely suffered tortures, then we grew weary and lay down to sleep». And pensively the sons, opposite «Duty» will enter «Don» into the book they keep.

[1960s]

657. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Идет по луговинам лития…»

Above the meadows rings a requiem mass. The secret book of Russia's Genesis where all Earth's fates are hidden has been read right to its end and has been tightly closed. And round and round the steppe winds rove and scour «Russia! Oh martyr! Rest in peace!»

[1960s]

658. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Если душа родилась крылатой…»

If a soul is born with wings — what does it care about earthly things! About Genghis-khan and about his Horde! I've but two enemies in this world, twins who have ever together stood: the hungry ones' hunger, the fed ones' food.

[1960s]

659. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Белье на речке полощу…»

I wash my laundry in the brook, I grow two flowers in my nook. I cross my heart when church bells call, I fast when there's no food at all. As soft as silk — my soul, my hair. My reputation must be fair. To do my duty is my belief. But oh, I love you — wolf and thief!

[1960s]

660. Марина Цветаева (1892–1941). «Ты дал нам мужества…»

You gave us courage a hundredfold — let the worlds turn — we will keep our hold; and ribs so strong they'll stand all pain and remember the Kingdom even when slain; You lifted Your likeness to the sky since Your faith in Your likeness wouldn't die. They give us breath and give us sweat enough to bear Your bounty yet!

[1960s]

661. Владислав Ходасевич(1886–1939). Музыка

All night a snow-storm raged, but day broke calm and clear. A Sunday laziness pervades my body still, the Sunday service in the nearby church is not yet over. As I step outside into my yard, how small things are: the house, the smoke that curls above the roof! The rose — — and-silver of the frosty air — it lifts its pillars over houses towards the sky's high cupola, like wings of giant angels. Sergei Ivanych, my fat neighbour, too, all of a sudden seems so very small. In high felt boots and lumber-jacket. Firewood is scattered all around him in the snow. As with both hands, and obviously straining, he lifts his heavy ax above his head, and yet the striking of his hits is not too loud: the sky, the snow, the cold absorbs the sound … «A happy Sunday, neighbour». Says, «Ah, greetings». So I too set out my firewood in my yard. He hits, I hit! But soon I tire of chopping and 1 straighten up and say to him: «Hold on a minute, now, — I hear some music?» Sergei Ivanych stops working, lifts his head a little way and listens, though he doesn't hear a thing. «You just imagined it», he tells me. «Really — just listen hard. To me it sounds quite clear!» Again he listens. «Could it be perhaps a military funeral? Yet truly I still hear nothing». But I don't give up: «Good gracious, now it's perfectly distinct. The music seems to come from up above. Violoncello… and perhaps a h arp … How beautifully played! Please stop that noise». And once again my poor Sergei Ivanych stops splitting wood. He doesn't hear a thing but doesn't want to interfere with me and doesn't wish to show me his annoyance. Amusing: stands there in his yard, afraid to interrupt the silent symphony. I finally take a pity and declare: «It's over». And again we both pick up our axes. Bang! And bang again! The sky is still as high above, and as before feathery angels shine and glimmer in it.