By Marina Tsvetaeva

(June 5th, 1923) 

- She’s at the bottom, with the mud

And seaweed… To sleep in them

She left… And yet, there is no sleep there

Either!

- And yet I loved her,

As forty thousand brothers

Couldn’t love!

- Hamlet!

She’s at the bottom, with the mud: The mud!…

The last of wreaths had floated up

Over the shoreline logs…

- But I did love her, loved

As forty thousand…

- But still less

Than just one lover.

She’s at the bottom now, with mud.

-… And yet I -

loved??