There are Four of Us

O Muse of Weeping.....
M. Tsvetaeva
I have turned aside from everything,
From the whole earthly store.
The spirit and guardian of this place
Is an old tree-stump in water.
 
We are brief guests of the earth, as it were,
And life is a habit we put on.
On paths of air I seem to overhear
Two friendly voices, talking in turn.
 
Did I say two? . . . There
By the east wall's tangle of raspberry,
Is a branch of elder, dark and fresh.
Why! it's a letter from Marina.

November 1961 (in delirium)

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