Tender is first breath of spring,
Night is warm, quiet, filled with moon.
Again tears, again dreams
In the dark castle of Schenbrunne.

Someone's silhouette in white
Over the table is bending.
Again madness, again sighs:
“Marsellaise! Tron!.. In Paris...”

From the pages letters rush,
Line – division. Sing the pipes...
Droplets fall from the eyelash,
“I am with you” whisper lips.

The dim semi-light from lamps
Shimmers, but the night is lighter.
Whose menacing silhouette
Grew up in the depths of alley?

Austrian prince? That is the role!
Duke? Dream! Winters in Schenbrunne?
No, he is a king, so small!
“Emperor, beloved son!

We are rushing! We are free,
There's no prison. Far are chains,
Do you see the lights, my dear?
Hear the splashes? It's the Seine!”

How wide is the father's coat!
Stallion runs, possessed by fire.
“What's the murmur among groves?
It's the see?” “Son – it's the warriors!”

“Oh my father, how you burn!
Look and then on right hand, sorry
Is the heaven?” “Paris, son!”
“And bending over him?” “Glory.”

In bright flash of Tiuleries
Banners are unwound.
“You have suffered! Now be king!
Hello, son of Napoleon!”

Drums and many strings in tune,
All in light.. Children are hiding..
All is quiet. Sleeps Schenbrunne.
In moonlight someone is crying.

By Marina Tsvetayeva
Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat