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Articles tagged "Marina Tsvetaeva"

Trees VI

Neither with paint, nor with a brush. Light is his kingdom: his hair is gray. The red leaves tell lies. Here light tramples color. Color is trampled by light. The heel of light crushes the chest of color. Isn't it in this, in this-- The secret, the strength, the purpose Of the autumn woods? As if a curtain Over a quiet backwater of days Has been torn--and, following it, sternly . . . As if one envisions one's son Through the chasubles of partings . . ....


Someone's heading for a fatal victory. Trees gesture like tragedies. Sacrificial dance of Judea! Trees flutter like sacramentals. This--a conspiracy against the era: Against weight, number, fraction, and time. This--a veil torn apart: Trees kneel like tombstones . . . Someone's arriving: Heaven is the entrance. Trees salute like festivals. May 7, 1923


What revelations, What truths What do you rustle of, The floods of green? With sacraments Of what raving sibyl, What do you rustle of, What do you rave about? What's in your fluttering? But I know--you cure With the cool of eternity The offense of time. Rising as a youthful Genius, you disparage With the finger of absence The falsehood of sight. So that, as before Earth only seemed to us. So that plans were enacted Only under closed eyelids. And...

“It is not fated that, in this world,”

It is not fated that, in this world, The strong join the strong. Thus, Siegfried parted from Brunhild, A sword stroke instead of a marriage.In the allied brotherly hatred --Like buffalos!--rock challenging rock. Unknown, he left the marriage bed, And, unknown, she slept. Apart; even in a marriage bed, Apart; even with joined fists, Apart; in the two-pronged language Too late and apart; this--our marriage! But there's a more ancient offense than That: lionlike,...

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