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For this hell,
For this toll,
Gimme an orchard
When I’m old.

When I’m old,
Aged with grief,
When I’m tired
Of hunchback years…

When I’m old,
Gimme a treasure,
For the scorched years –
a cool pleasure…

For a fugitive,
Give an orchard,
To a faceless one,
Give a fortune.

With no overseers,
With no ears,
With no wanderers,
And no sneers

Can the orchard be
A trade-off for pain?
Just a lonesome place,
For a lonesome fate.

Just an orchard place,
For my ending rest,
Or, perhaps, the space
For my future quest?

— Marina Tsvetaeva,
1st September 1934

(Translated by Victor Postnikov)

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