In memory of Marina Tsvetaeva

Glumly stretches bad weather day.
Inconsolably streaming streams
On the porch in front of the hall door
And in my open windows.

Outside the fence along the road
Flooding the public garden.
lounging, like animals in a den,
Clouds are in disarray.

I'm in bad weather imagining book
On land and its beauty.
I paint timber shishiga
For you on the cover sheet.

Brother, marina, It has long time,
And the work is not so so hot,
Your ashes thrown in the requiem
Yelabuga transfer.

The triumph of your transfer
I conceived last year
Reach over the snow desert,
Where winter launches in ice.


I also still difficult
Imagine you died,
As skopidomkoy milonershey
Amid the hungry sisters.

What should I do to please you?
Give like anything about this news.
In the silence of your departure
Unspoken reproach there.

Always mysterious loss.
The fruitless searches of response
I am suffering with no result:
In death there is no outline.
It all – hint and shadow,
Slips of the tongue and self-deception,
And only faith on Sunday
Some given index.
Winter – as the lush wakes:
Out to get out of the housing,
Add to dusk currants,
pour wine – that's kutya.
Before the house of apple tree in the snow,
The city in the snowy shroud –
Your huge tombstone,
As the whole year seemed.
Person to turn to God,
You pull him off the ground,
How in days, When you total
More on it did not disappoint.


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Boris Pasternak
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