To you – crown of thorns; of roses – to your fathers To fathers – wine, to you – a jug alone. For their transgressions you have fallen martyr, O the dauphine tormented at the dawn! Not rotten fruit – a flower, unlived, fresh one, The people's anger stomped into the mire. All children have the same expression: Such inexpressible and tender eyes! You've smoked as from a pipe, the heir, the prince, with In your curls, skullcaps of the mutineers; With ruddy wine the pinkish lips were filthy, Shoemaker's fist was beating the dauphine. Where is the proud shine of centuries gloried? Everything vanished, into dust and soil! For all of it the little children suffered: A baby-prince and a curly-headed girl. The final moment of the parting's here. Hold! Someone's song! It is the angel chorus... And you spread out the arm that grow weaker There where there's shelter for the travelers. On distant journey credulously departing, You understood, O prince, wherefore we cry, And know, as you to a dear song you slumber, That you'll awake a monarch in the sky. By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat
