Who's made of stone, who's made of mud,
And I'm made from silver and shine.
My act is betrayal, my name is Marina,
The fragile sea foam am I.
Who is made from mud, who is made from flesh —
There's coffin and coffin plates...
Baptized in a sea font and unceasingly
Broken in my flight!
Through every heart, through every net
Will poke its head my will.
You will not make me the salt of the earth
Can you see these my loose curls?
I resurrect with each wave, pounding
Against your granite knees!
May be well the foam — the high foam —
The high foam of the seas!
I like it that you're burning not for me,
I like it that it's not for you I'm burning
And that the heavy sphere of Planet Earth
Will underneath our feet no more be turning
I like it that I can be unabashed
And humorous and not to play with words
And not to redden with a smothering wave
When with my sleeves I'm lightly touching yours.
I like it, that before my very eyes
You calmly hug another; it is well
That for me also kissing someone else
You will not threaten me with flames of hell.
That this my tender name, not day nor night,
You will recall again, my tender love;
That never in the silence of the church
They will sing «halleluiah» us above.
With this my heart and this my hand I thank
You that — although you don't know it —
You love me thus; and for my peaceful nights
And for rare meetings in the hour of sunset,
That we aren't walking underneath the moon,
That sun is not above our heads this morning,
That you — alas — are burning not for me
And that — alas — it's not for you I'm burning.
The gypsy passion of parting!
You meet it — and you take flight!
I dropped the arms and the forehead
And think staring into the night:
No one, digging in our letters,
Understood in all depth
How we're sacrilegious — that is
How we in each other have faith...