By Marina Tsvetaeva
Translation by
Dasha Bulatova
I don’t think, accuse, or argue.
I don’t sleep.
I don’t call for the sun or moon or sea,
I don’t call for the ship.
I don’t feel the heat in these walls
Nor the garden’s green.
I no longer wait for the gift
I had longed for.
Neither the morning, nor the trolley’s
Bright ring brings me joy.
I live blind to the light,
Ignoring hour and era.
It seems that on a frayed tightrope
I am a toy dancer.
I am a shadow of shadows,
Sleepwalking under two dark moons.