Tuesday, 14 August 2012
Marina Tsvetaeva: To B. Pasternak
Dis-tances: miles, versts…
They dis-pelled us until we dis-persed,
So we would act as we were told
In two corners of the world.
Dis-tances: versts, spaces…
They dislocated us, they displaced us,
They disjoined us, crucified on display,
And observed to their dismay,
How sinew and ideas soldered…
Without discord, - just in disorder,
Disconnected by a wall and a dike.
They disbanded us like
Eagles-conspirators: versts, spaces…
Not disunited, - they disarrayed us.
Across the slums of the globe’s range
As if orphans, we’re disarranged.
For how many Marches, have our hearts
Been cut like a deck of cards?!
March 24, 1925