Marina Tsvetaeva: Night.—Northeaster
Night.—Northeaster.—Roar of soldiers.—Roar of waves.
Wine cellars raided.—Down every street,
every gutter—a flood, a precious flood,
and in it, dancing, a moon the colour of blood. Tall poplars stand dazed.
Birds sing all night—crazed.
A tsar’s statue—razed,
black night in its place. Barracks and harbour drink, drink.
The world and its wine—ours!
The town stamps about like a bull,
swills from the turbid puddles. The moon in a cloud of wine.—Who’s that? Stop!
Be my comrade, sweetheart: drink up!
Merry stories go round:
Deep in wine—a couple has drowned. Feodosia, the last days of October 1917 •Translated by Boris Dralyuk.
Wine cellars raided.—Down every street,
every gutter—a flood, a precious flood,
and in it, dancing, a moon the colour of blood. Tall poplars stand dazed.
Birds sing all night—crazed.
A tsar’s statue—razed,
black night in its place. Barracks and harbour drink, drink.
The world and its wine—ours!
The town stamps about like a bull,
swills from the turbid puddles. The moon in a cloud of wine.—Who’s that? Stop!
Be my comrade, sweetheart: drink up!
Merry stories go round:
Deep in wine—a couple has drowned. Feodosia, the last days of October 1917 •Translated by Boris Dralyuk.