quarta-feira, setembro 18, 2013

To Boris Pasternak

Distance: versts, miles . . .
divide us; they’ve dispersed us,
to make us behave quietly
at our different ends of the earth.

Distance: how many miles of it
lie between us now – disconnected –
crucified – then dissected.
And they don’t know – it unites us.

Our spirits and sinews fuse,
there’s no discord between us,
though our separated pieces lie outside
the moat – for eagles!

This conspiracy of miles
has not yet disconcerted us,
however much they’ve pushed us, like
orphans into backwaters.

– What then? Well. Now it’s March!
And we’re scattered like some pack of cards!

- Marina Tsvetayeva
(translated by Elaine Feinstein)

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