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.