Your name is a finch in my hand,
A small bit of ice on tongue’s end
One movement of lips slightly stirred,
Your name is a four-letter word
A marble right-caught in mid-air,
A silvery tinkle of bells at a fair
A stone cast in a placid pond
Will snort in the likeness of family bond
As light as the clip-clop of horses’ hoofs,
As loud as the cling-clang of steel-shod hoofs ...
The dry-click of firing-pin at our head
Will sharply recall as your name is said
Your name is like – that I say not!
It’s like a kiss on the eyes wrought
When shut, they are laden with frosty grace …
Your name is like kissing a snow-swept glaze
A draught of cool blue from a spring-cleft rock,
Your name grants deep sleep around the clock *
* Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (Мари́на Ива́новна Цвета́ева) (8 October 1892 – 31 August 1941)
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