By Marina Tsvetaeva
(June 5th, 1923)
- She’s at the bottom, with the mud
And seaweed… To sleep in them
She left… And yet, there is no sleep there
Either!
- And yet I loved her,
As forty thousand brothers
Couldn’t love!
- Hamlet!
She’s at the bottom, with the mud: The mud!…
The last of wreaths had floated up
Over the shoreline logs…
- But I did love her, loved
As forty thousand…
- But still less
Than just one lover.
She’s at the bottom now, with mud.
-… And yet I -
loved??