Marina Tsvetaeva — To Byron

I think about the morning of your glory,

About the morning of your days too, when

Like a demon you from sleep had stirred

And were a god for men.

I think of when your eyebrows came together

Over the burning torches of your eyes,

Of how the ancient blood's eternal lava

Rushed through your arteries.

I think of fingers - very long - inside

The wavy hair, about all

Eyes that did thirst for you in alleys

And in the dining-halls.

About the hearts too, which - you were too young then -

You did not have the time to read, too soon,

About the times, when solely in your honor

Arose and down went the moon.

I think about a hall in semi-darkness,

About the velvet, into lace inclined,

About the poems we would have told each other,

You - yours, I - mine.

I also think about the remaining

From your lips and your eyes handful of dust..

About all eyes, that are now in the graveyard

About them and us..