Marina tsvetaeva

You’re me in the way. I used to
Wlak so, without looking up.
Stop, passerby! Don’t refuse to.
I beg and I pray you – stop!

You’ll read, as you lay the glowing
Red blossoms on the mound of grass:
Marina. And then more slowly:
The dates – of my birth and death.

Yes, there is a grave, but leave it
And hount you I won’t, no fear.
I too, you can well believe it,
Once laught in the midst of tears.

The blood through my veins coursed freely,
The locks curled around my face.
Stop, passerby! Can’t you feel it?
I too, passerby, once was.

A strawberry. Pluck it, eat it!
It’s there, near the very ground.
No berries are ever sweeter
Then those in a graveyard found.

But only no gloom, no tightly
Closed lips, do not brood or fret.
Think lightly on me, and lightly
My name, passerby, forget.

The sun’s dust-like beams caress you,
Your shoulders and head they lave.
Please don’t let the voice distress you
That cames to you from grave.

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Marina tsvetaeva