Marina Tsvetaeva, Her Life in Poems - Rolf Gross

A loss is always mysterious.
In vain am I looking for clues
I torment my brain with no result:
Death has no form.
Everything - hints and shadows,
Slips of the tongue and self-deceptions,
And only faith in resurrection
Can give the semblance of a sign.
Winter – like a lavish funeral:
Outside my house
Adds currants to the dusk,
Pours wine – and there is a cake.
Outside an apple tree stands in a snow drift.
And the snow-shrouded town has been-
A monument to your memory,
What a long year it seems to me.
With your face turned to God,
You're reaching for him from the land
Like in the days when you walked on it
Where you will yet be appreciated.
December 1943
92