Listen to Marina Pavlova read this excerpt in Russian and English.

translated from the Russian by Marina Pavlova

VI.

The mountain was mourning (and mountains’ moaning
At parting makes loamy, embittered marks)—
The mountain was mourning our mellow mornings,
Our dove-like caressing long after dark.

The mountain was mourning our tender friendship—
That most sacrosanct kinship—of lips!
The mountain was soothing: shall it be rendered
To each—according to their tears.

The mountain was saying, life is for gypsies—
Nothing but hearts’ eternal bazaar!
The mountain was mourning: at least she wasn’t
Childless—poor, forlorn Hagar!

The mountain was saying that it was Satan’s
Chicanery—game without design.
The mountain was speaking and we kept silent,
Letting the mountain judge and decide.

VII.

The mountain was mourning that only sadness
Follows this swelter and fret of blood.
The mountain was saying that it shan’t suffer
You with another after we part!

The mountain was mourning that Urbi et Orbi
Tomorrow will be but a cloud of smoke.
The mountain was saying we’ll have new lovers,
Later (and those are in for hard luck!).

The mountain was mourning the dreadful burden
Of oaths which are now too late to disclaim.
The Gordian knot, it was saying, is age-old—
That of duty and flame.

The mountain was mourning that which awaited us
Later! Tomorrow! When we realize—
When we are left without memento— 
Mori!—before our eyes.

Sobs . . . It’s as if . . . as if there was someone . . .
Someone . . . crying close by?
The mountain was mourning our journey downward—
Singly, through all this slime—

Back into life, just as we know it
Mob—huckstering—filth.
The mountain was saying that all such poems
Are—written—like this.

POSTSCRIPT

Seven veils have clouded my vision,
Left my memories full of gaps . . .
I can’t picture you detail by detail—
And your features from memory lapse.

With no marks. All in one chasm.
(All in wounds, my soul—one big scar.)
Chalking off this part or that one
Is the dressmakers’—not my task.

Heaven’s vault has no walls or borders.
Is the ocean made up—of drops?!
With no marks. Special—all over.
Love’s a tie—and no police probe.

Raven-black, smoky or silver—
Let a neighbor tell you of this.
What’s that passion which takes to pieces?
Like a druggist or a clocksmith?

You’re a circle, perfect and total:
Total spasm, one ceaseless gyre.
I can’t picture you quota by quota,
Outside love—our equals sign.

(In the heaps of slumberous down—
Cataracts, mounds of foam—
Saying “We are” instead of “I am”
—It felt odd—as if on a throne . . .)

As for life, narrow and lowly—
“As it is”—poor and unchanged—
I can’t picture you
With another
—And this memory is my revenge.

(1924)

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