Correspondence Marina Tsvetaeva

September Gilles-sur-Bu
June 3, 1926



A lot, almost everything remains in the notebook. Thou art only the words of my letter to Boris Pasternak:

"When I love you again and again asked, what we will do in life, you said once:" We go to Rilke. And I'll tell you what Rilke is overloaded, that he nothing and in no one does not need. From it blows cold, affluent, a property which I have already included. I have nothing to give him, everything has already happened before. He does not need me and you, too. Power always implicate, distracts. Something in it (as it is called, you know) does not want to be distracted. It can not.

This meeting is for me - a blow to the heart (heart not only beat, but beaten, - every time as soon as it hurries up!). Moreover, he is quite right, because I (you) in our best hours - such as yourself.

===========

The phrase from your letter: "... when suddenly I will have to clam, do not let that prevent you continue to write to me once ..."

I read it and immediately: - These words are asking for peace. Peace has come. (What, you're a little quiet?)

Do you know what all this means: peace, concern, request, response, etc. Look, I think, that I suddenly realized this is absolutely.

Prior to life - all the usual, but when live - something now. (There are - all the same!)

My love for you is broken into days, and letters, clocks and lines. Hence - restlessness. (Because you and ask about the rest!) Letter today, the letter tomorrow. You live, I want to see you. Transplanting of Always Now. This flour, by-day, priceless every hour, an hour just as another step to the letter. In another or may have other (or want to have, in general - to want one!). As soon as I noticed it - stopped.

Now it is over. With his desire, I can handle quickly. What I want from you? Nothing. Most - about you. Probably simple - to you. No letter has become - without you. More - more. Without the letter - without you, with the letter - without you, with you - without you. In thee Do not be .- die!

That I am. It is the love - in time. Ungrateful and self-destructive. I do not fear the love and not love.

In the great infamy of love --
 

is my line. <...>

So, Reiner - is behind. I do not want to see you. I do not want to want.

Perhaps - someday - with Boris (who from a distance, without a single line from me, all the "sensed"! Ear of a poet!) - But when - as ... Let's hurry!

And now - that you did not find me low - I was silent, not because of the pain - because of the ugliness of this pain!

Now all this behind. Now I am writing to you.

Marina

<...>




Rainer Maria Rilke - Marina Tsvetaeva
  


Castle Myuzot,
June 8, 1926 (evening)



And my little word you looked up before him, and it threw this big shadow in which you otsutstvuesh incomprehensible to me, Marina! It is inconceivable, but here are conceived. What I have it, that my sentence, he wrote, there was not on ... as you wrote to Boris, congestion, oh, no, Marina - liberty, freedom and lightness, and such (you do agree with this) windfall hail! Only not ignorance. And for some time, probably due to the physical, so fearful, when someone, someone beloved is waiting on me for something big, or change, and I: suddenly folds not met expectations. It is difficult I still can not overcome without a run, but suddenly is afraid of necessity (and even inside, even happy) to write the letter, it suddenly gets a very steep challenge: irresistible.

Should everything be as you know it you? Maybe. This preassigned to us - whether to rejoice or mourn him about this? I wrote to you today the whole poem, among the grape slopes, sitting on a warm (but, alas, not quite heated) wall and holding lizards sounding verse. You see, I'm back. But in my old tower that still have to work hard until the masons and other specialists. Nowhere is there peace, cold and damp in the edge of the grape, which normally is always much sun.

And then, when we are in the band "unwillingness", we deserve some leniency. Here's my little pictures. Not if you send it to me "despite ..." something else of yours?: I do not want to lose that joy.

Rainer



Elegy for Marina
Shooting stars ... Well what is the loss of the Universe

Marina!

And we never let them recover to whatever constellations

no rush. Everything has been considered in the universe

spaces.

And those who fell, did not reduce the numbers of sacred.

Each fall, denied it, and hurries to the source,

where is sheets. Is Well otherwise might be all a game

exchange of similarity, displacement, so that no nowhere

no names, no production for home and shelter.

We - the waves, Marina, we - the sea! Depth, Marina!

We - the sky!

Land! We, Marina - land! We - a thousand thousand springs,

We - the lark, whose song, yearning of the heart,

in invisible disappears.

Our song begins with joy,

it overwhelmed us with his head,

but once our weight and our burden of turning it

downhill --

to the melody of complaints ... But it really is a complaint

and laments?

And not a new exultation, just heading into the dale?

After all, our gods and valley, Marina, want to be praised.

The gods are so innocent, and praise our search,

like small children in school at her desk.

So why should we begrudge, Marina? We

generous without looking back.

Did we somehow possess? Only occasionally touching softly

to the necks of innocent flowers. That I once saw on the Nile,

in the town of Kom Ombo.

Here they are - our gifts here; voluntary humility --

whole essence of the royal victim.

Angels, with the highest heights, they mark a sign as agreed

doors only those

who is worthy of salvation. So we have to deal here

that only that soft and tender flickers.

How far behind is all that we cast! All - like

chaos and dust, on the Marina! Even if by

leads us cordial hospitality awe ...

Who are we? Only applicants characters. No more. But

Our quietest it occupied when suddenly a burden it

and you decide to grab and shred - revenge and kill.

Because of the power of his mortal we guessed long ago,

noticing the deep rigor and tenderness, and a strange force

which of us living in the light of those

left-of-living, turns.

Not-being. Do you know how we are often blind Order

by chilling threshold to the birth of new bore? ..

We Do? And if the body is not entirely out of the eyes, in escaping,

under the age of countless ...

With heart vodvinutym in us - the heart of a kind.

To order a distant goal rushes migratory flock --

Mademoiselle is not an image

in our shimmering transformations? Loving, Marina,

should not be about death to know too much.

The new need them to be continuously! The older they have only

Grave;

Only one grave - in thought,

sinking deeper and deeper

in the twilight of a weeping tree, dreaming of the transitory.

One only grave - in decline, they themselves - as the vine;

and he who gives them all their infinite flexibility

that majestically crowns them. Oh, how they permeated

the May breeze!

Of the range of specialty, the one that you live, you Understand,

moment of freedom carries. (Oh, how I understand

Feminine blossoming on a continuing bush timeless!

Oh, how I quickly throw dirt in the night breeze,

that soon will come to you caress.) Once learned Gods

halves pretend. We gain integrity,

circular

like the movements of accomplishing the lunar cycle. Yet neither

escapes in the period of the ground,

nor in time of sharp turns will not help us one again

to the fullness of life

return - only the lonely our own way

Sleepless on the earth.

 




Marina Tsvetaeva - Rainer Marie Rilke
  


September Gilles
June 14, 1926



Listen, Rainer, that you knew from the outset. I am - bad. Boris - good. And I said nothing of his depravity, only a few sentences about your Russianness about my German, etc. And then the complaint: "Why do you exclude? I love him just like you. "

What I felt? Repentance? No. Never. Nothing. Without a sense, this was the action. I rewrote two of your first letter and sent him. What more could I? Oh, I'm bad, Rainer, I do not want an accomplice, even if it was God himself.

I have - many, do not you see it? Perhaps untold! (Insatiable multiplicity!) No one must know about the other, it prevents. If I am with her son, then his (her?), No - what you wrote and loves you, should not be at the same time. And if I'm with you - and so on exclusivity and aloofness. Even in itself does not want to be partners, not only that - around him. And because I'm living spurious (that is secretive, but compelled to speech - spurious), although in another life I slyvu true, but this is. Do not know how to share.

But I shared (it happened 2-3 days before your letter). No, Rainer, I do not spurious, I too true. If I could throw in the correspondence and friendship are simple, the permissible words - it would be good! But I know that you are not correspondence and friendship. I want to be in people's lives that does not bring the pain, because I'm lying - everyone, except himself.

All my life in a false position. "For where I was bent - I lied» (gebogen - gelogen). Lied, Reiner, but not misleading!

If I throw on the stranger's neck - this is natural, but if I talk about this - this is an unnatural (for me the most!). But if I do this is embodied in the verses, so again, naturally. So: act and poetry make me right. Interval accuses me. Interval - a lie, I did not. When I tell the truth (his hands around his neck) - is false. When I keep silent about it - it becomes the truth.

Inner right to privacy. This does not affect anyone, even the neck, around which the interlock my hands. My business. And still think that I - a woman, married, children, etc.

Renounce? Oh, this is not so strongly, that was worth it. I deny all too easily. Conversely, if I make a gesture, I am glad that I can still do it. My hands are so rarely want something!

===========

Plunge deep into yourself, and after days or years - once - unexpectedly - to return to the game of water, making the depth in height, pereterpev, brightening. But do not tell: this writing, this kiss.

"Hail the same, soon it would be!" - So says my soul to my lips. And hug a tree or a person - for me one. Is One essence.

===========

This is - one side. Now - another. Boris gave you to me. And as soon as received, I want to leave you for yourself alone. Pretty ugly. And quite painful - for him. That's why I sent the letter.

===========

Your lovely pictures. You know how you look at large? As if in ambush, and suddenly called back. And another, smaller one - goodbye. Goer, who once again, hurriedly - horses are already waiting - glance, see your garden, like a written sheet before you leave. Without stopping, but separated. Someone, gently let go a complete landscape. (Reiner, take me with you!)

You have bright eyes, translucent light - like Ariadne, and wrinkles between the eyebrows (vertical!) - From me, she was in my childhood - always frown on reflection and anger.

(Rainer, I love you and want to see you.)

Your Elegy. Reiner, his whole life, I give away myself in poetry - everything. Poet - as well. But I always gave too much, I always jammed the possible answer. I forestalled response. That is why poets do not write me poetry (bad poetry - the same as that of non-poetry, even less than the non-!) - And I always laughed: they leave it to someone who will come in a hundred years.

And, Rainer, your poem, a poem by Rilke, Poet, Poetry - Poem. And, Rainer - my numbness. The situation turned upside down. Right situation.


Oh, I love you, I can not call it differently, the first yavivsheesya and yet the first and best word.

===========

Reiner, last night I went out to remove the clothes, because it started to rain. I had to embrace all the wind - no, the entire northeast. And he called you. (Tomorrow it will be south!) I took him to the house, he stayed on the threshold. In the house he went, but he took me to the sea - as soon as I fell asleep.

===========

Only applicants characters. No more ... "

It's about love, about their inclusion and exclusion of being ( "From the core are always the »)... For a long quiet walk in the moonlight. And all this is called none other than: I love you.

Marina



Favorite! I want to send you one word, maybe you do not know him.

Hurts - that's a true word, it hurts - this is a good word, it hurts - this is a gracious word.

(St. Kinga, XIII century.)

The photographs I have not yet, as soon as I get, just send it to you. Write me about Myuzot - left a bricklayer? Is it the sun? We have a single solar hours. I would like to send you all the sun beat him with nails to your landscape.

Yes, Rainer! If I had something written about you, you would call it: Over the hill.

The first dog, which you stroke after this letter, - I. Notice how she looks at you.



Marina Tsvetaeva - Rainer Marie Rilke



September Gilles-sur-Bu
  July 6, 1926



Dear Rainer,

Goethe says somewhere that a foreign language can not create anything significant - it always seemed to me wrong. (In general, Goethe is always right, in the total result is a pattern, because, now I am with him and did not agree.)

The writing of poetry - already translated from the native language - for all others, be they French or German, anyway. No language - not a native language. Write poetry - then transposed them (Dichten ist nachdichten). So I do not understand when people talk about the French or Russian, etc. Therefore. A poet can write in French, but it can not be a French poet. This is ridiculous.

I am not a Russian poet and always surprised when I see such and see. Therefore, and become a poet (if at all, it can be, if this were not a brat!), Not to be French, Russian and so forth, but to be everything. Or: is, therefore, because there is French. Nationality - seclusion and secrecy. Orpheus blows nationality or extends it so far and wide, that all (past and likely to be) are included here. Beautiful German - here! And the beautiful Russian!

But in every language there is something peculiar only to him, and that is the proper language. That's why you sound different in French than in German - because something you and written in French! German French deeper, fuller, more spacious and darker. French: watch without echo, German - more echoes than hours (the battle). German again, continually, endlessly recreated by the reader, the French all the same here. German - in the formation, the French - in the residence. Ungrateful for the poet's language - so you and wrote on it. Almost impossible language!

German - infinite promise (this, of course - a gift!), French - a final gift. Platen wrote in French. You ( «Verger» 1) write in German, that is - himself a poet. For the German - the closest native language. I think, closer than the Russian. Closer.

Rainer, I know you in every line, but you sound short, each line - this is a shortened Rilke, almost like an outline. Every word. Each syllable.

Grand-Maître des absences2
you did great. Grossmeister3 - would not have sounded! A - partance (entre ton trop d'arrivée et ton trop de parlance4 - it comes from afar, and why go so far!) Of Mary Stuart: Combien j'ai douce souvenance
De ce beau pays de France 5 ...
 

Do you know it these lines:

Car top pis et mieux top
Sont les plus déserts lieux6?
 

(Reiner, as well could be heard in French "Song of the standard-bearer"!)

«Verger» I rewrote for Boris.

Soyons plus vite
Que Ie rapide départ7
 
it rhymes with mine: That train, on which all --
Late ...
(About the poet)

 

A «pourquoi tant appuyer» 8 - with the words Mademoiselle Lespinas: «Glissez, mortels, n'appuyez pas!» 9

You know what's new in this thy book? Your smile.

( «LesAnges sont-ils devenus discrets» --
«Mats I'excellente place - est un peu trop en face ...») 10
 

Ax, Reiner, the first page of my letter could well be absent. Today you:

... Et pourtànt quel fier moment
lorsqu'un instant Ie vent se déclare
pour tel pays: consent à la France 11
 

If I were a Frenchman and wrote about your book, it would make the motto: «consent a la France». And now - from you to me:

Parfois elle paraît attendrie
qu'on I'écoute si biep --
alors elle montre sa vie
et ne dit plus rien.12

(You, nature!)

 

But you're still a poet, Rainer, and from poetry await de 1'inédit13. So quickly write a long letter to me one or I pretend to be stupider than I am, I will "hurt", "deceived the best feelings," etc., but you must write to me (to reassure yourself because you're -- good!).

Can I kiss you? It is nothing more than a hug, a hug, no kissing - almost impossible!

Marina

<...>

 





1 Orchard (born).

2 Grand Master absences (<j?.).

3 Grand Master, Grand Master (in German).

4 Departure (between exorbitancy your arrival and my departure) (Fr.).

5 What a delightful to me to remember about this wonderful French (Fr.).

6 For the worst and the best in me - places that only the desert (born).

7 Let's hurry. Why the hasty departure (Fr.).

8 Do I have to keep both (Fr.).

9 Glide, death, keep moving (Fr.).

10 Angels were modest? - But the best place - not in front, a little further ... (Fr.).

11 However, a sublime moment, when suddenly a wind comes up for this country: one with France (Fr.).

12 At times she seems touched by the fact that its so listen carefully - then it shows his life and never said anything (Fr.).

13 unpublished (Fr.).



Rainer Maria Rilke - Marina Tsvetaeva
  


Hotel Hof Ragaz,
  Ragaz (Switzerland)
July 28, 1926



Wonderful Marina

as in your first letter, and in each subsequent I admire and admire the precision with which you are looking for and find, through your tireless to ensure what you're thinking, and - always - your right. You're right, Marina (unless it is not uncommon when it comes to a woman? "), You abide in righteousness in the law and carefree way. This is not the possession of righteousness for something, and hardly out of something, no, your rightness is so unassuming stems from the integrity of completeness, that through this you have the continuing right to the infinite. Whenever I write to you, I would like to write like you speak about the n - m in o e m y, with the help of your low-key, but that such effective remedies. As a reflection of the stars - your testimony, Marina, when it appears in the water and water the same, life water, its fluid is disturbed at night, was suspended, but returned again, and then moving deeper into the stream, as if already become related with the world, reflections, and after each species back into it even deeper! (You - the big star!) Do you know the story of returning home, the young Tycho Brahe, at the time when he is not engaged in astronomy, but once he returned from the University of Leipzig for vacation home in uncle's estate ... and it was discovered that he already knew so well, the sky (in spite of Leipzig and law!), so learn it by heart (pense: il savait le ciel par cocur *), that only the naked eye it more holidaymakers than looking eyes gave him new star in the constellation Lyra: it was his first opening in the starry world. (I was wrong or not, that this is the alpha star in Cassiopeia, "which can be seen from the whole of Provence and the Mediterranean countries" and that is now shining brightly, as she called Mistral?, However, hardly enough to us, trusting that time, believing that it is again possible: the poet was thrown among the stars. If one day you happen to stay in Meyane, you will be able to tell his daughter: the Mistral, as it is beautiful tonight! "Finally on top of street signs - Glory!)

But you, Marina, I did not find the naked eye, that Boris has put a telescope in front of my sky ... first before my eyes swept the space, and then, suddenly, you appeared, clean and strong, in the heart of the review, where the rays of your first letter to me yavili you.

The most recent letter from you, I - 9 July: how often I wanted to answer you! But my life is in me so hard, sometimes I am unable to move it, it seems that gravity makes the life of some new attitude - since childhood, I have not had much of the spirit of disabilities, but then the world was attractive, and pressed on to , who himself was like a broken wing, from which escape into the unknown feather for feather ... And now I myself - gravity, and the world - like a dream round, and summer is so strangely absent-mindedly, as if it did not think about their own subjects ...

You see, I once again left his Myuzot: here, in Ragaz, glimpse of my oldest and incomparable friends, relations with whom I value more in Austria ... Al <...>, them suddenly came to their Russian friend, a Russian man - imagine what it means to me! But they are all gone, and I stay still for long around these beautiful aquamarine-transparent springs. And how are you?

Rainer


Car top pis et man mieux
Sont les plus deserts lieux *:

 

Your gift: I'll rewrite it in his notebook.



   * Think: he knew by heart the sky (Fr.).

** For the best and worst in me - places that only the desert (Fr.).




Rainer Maria Rilke - Marina Tsvetaeva
  


Hotel Hof Ragaz,
  Ragaz (Switzerland)
July 28, 1926



Wonderful Marina

as in your first letter, and in each subsequent I admire and admire the precision with which you are looking for and find, through your tireless to ensure what you're thinking, and - always - your right. You're right, Marina (unless it is not uncommon when it comes to a woman? "), You abide in righteousness in the law and carefree way. This is not the possession of righteousness for something, and hardly out of something, no, your rightness is so unassuming stems from the integrity of completeness, that through this you have the continuing right to the infinite. Whenever I write to you, I would like to write like you speak about the n - m in o e m y, with the help of your low-key, but that such effective remedies. As a reflection of the stars - your testimony, Marina, when it appears in the water and water the same, life water, its fluid is disturbed at night, was suspended, but returned again, and then moving deeper into the stream, as if already become related with the world, reflections, and after each species back into it even deeper! (You - the big star!) Do you know the story of returning home, the young Tycho Brahe, at the time when he is not engaged in astronomy, but once he returned from the University of Leipzig for vacation home in uncle's estate ... and it was discovered that he already knew so well, the sky (in spite of Leipzig and law!), so learn it by heart (pense: il savait le ciel par cocur *), that only the naked eye it more holidaymakers than looking eyes gave him new star in the constellation Lyra: it was his first opening in the starry world. (I was wrong or not, that this is the alpha star in Cassiopeia, "which can be seen from the whole of Provence and the Mediterranean countries" and that is now shining brightly, as she called Mistral?, However, hardly enough to us, trusting that time, believing that it is again possible: the poet was thrown among the stars. If one day you happen to stay in Meyane, you will be able to tell his daughter: the Mistral, as it is beautiful tonight! "Finally on top of street signs - Glory!)


But you, Marina, I did not find the naked eye, that Boris has put a telescope in front of my sky ... first before my eyes swept the space, and then, suddenly, you appeared, clean and strong, in the heart of the review, where the rays of your first letter to me yavili you.

The most recent letter from you, I - 9 July: how often I wanted to answer you! But my life is in me so hard, sometimes I am unable to move it, it seems that gravity makes the life of some new attitude - since childhood, I have not had much of the spirit of disabilities, but then the world was attractive, and pressed on to , who himself was like a broken wing, from which escape into the unknown feather for feather ... And now I myself - gravity, and the world - like a dream round, and summer is so strangely absent-mindedly, as if it did not think about their own subjects ...

You see, I once again left his Myuzot: here, in Ragaz, glimpse of my oldest and incomparable friends, relations with whom I value more in Austria ... Al <...>, them suddenly came to their Russian friend, a Russian man - imagine what it means to me! But they are all gone, and I stay still for long around these beautiful aquamarine-transparent springs. And how are you?

Rainer


Car top pis et man mieux
Sont les plus deserts lieux *:

 

Your gift: I'll rewrite it in his notebook.



   * Think: he knew by heart the sky (Fr.).

** For the best and worst in me - places that only the desert (Fr.).


Marina Tsvetaeva - Rainer Marie Rilke



September Gilles-sur-Vie.
August 2, 1926



Reiner, your letter was received on the day of his birthday party, 17/30 July, yes, I also have a saint, though I feel like a firstborn, his name, as you - your first-born. At the saint whose name Reiner, of course, had a different name. Rainer - it's you.

And to my name day, this wonderful gift - your letter. Quite unexpectedly, every time I could not get used to you (and to yourself! "), But to the amazement too, just to his own thoughts about you. You - what I'll dream tonight that I will dream tonight (traumen oder geträumt sein? *) I am the stranger in a strange dream. I never wait for you, but know the time.

If someone we dreamed together - that's when we meet again.

Rainer, I want to see you more and for a new one, which can only arise with thee, in thee. And then, Rainer (Rainer "- the leitmotif of the letter) - but not to be angry at me, because it's me, I want to sleep with you - go to sleep and sleep. Great popular phrase, as deeply as truthfully as clearly as to exactly what it is. Simply - to sleep. And nothing more. No, again: head in your left shoulder, arm - around your right - and nothing more. No more: and in the very deep sleep to know that it's you. And: as a link in your heart. And - to kiss the heart.

Sometimes I think: I should enjoy the chance that I'm still (still!) Corporeal. After all, soon I will no longer hand. And yet - it sounds like a confession (which is a confession? Boast of his blackness! Who could speak about their suffering without having to be inspired, that is lucky!) - So, this may not sound like a confession: the bodies are bored with me . They have something to feel and do not believe me (I think), although I do everything just like everyone else. Too ... disinterested, perhaps, too ... benevolent. And trusting - too! Trusting strangers (savages), do not know no law or custom. The local did not trust! All this does not belong to love, love hears and feels just herself, a very local and accurate, I can not be forged. And - great compassion, who knows where it is, infinite kindness and - lies.

I always feel like a senior. This children's game - too serious, I'm not serious.

Roth, I always felt like the world: the vault of heaven, the cavity, gorge, abyss. I body is always translated into the soul (razvoploschala!), "Physical" love - in order to be able to love her - I was so celebrated, that from her suddenly there was nothing left. Immersed in it so that passed through. Penetrating into it, it superseded. Nothing is left of it except for me the most: the Soul (so call me, therefore, surprise: birthday party!).

Love hates poet. She does not want to be exalted (itself quite gorgeous! "), Because it considers itself absolute, the only absolute. She does not trust us. In the depths of herself she knows that she is not beautiful (because so confident!) - /Nicht herrlich ist darum so herrisch! /, It knows that every beauty - is the soul, and where does the soul, where the body ends. Jealousy, Reiner, pure and simple. Such then, as the soul to the body. Oh, I'm always jealous of the body: it is so to sing! A small episode of Francesco and Paolo .- poor Dante! - Who else thinks about Dante and Beatrice? I am jealous of the human comedy. The soul never loved as a body, at the most - voshvalyaema. Thousand souls loved by the body. Who ever cursed himself for the sake of the soul? And if anyone desired to do the impossible: to love the soul, the risk of being cursed - this is meant to be an angel. Present some of the hell we escaped the deception! <...>

Why am I telling you all this? Perhaps out of fear that you considered me a passionate-as-all (passion - Serfdom pravo1). "I love you and want to sleep with you", shortness of friendship impermissible. But I say this other voice, almost in a dream, deep in sleep. I sound quite different than passion. If you took me to her, you'd take to my - le plus déserts lieux2. All that does not sleep ever, would be able to sleep in your arms. Until the soul (gortani3) - this would be the kiss (not fire: the abyss).

Je ne plaide pas ma cause, je plaide la cause du plus absolu des baisers4.

You're always in the way you live anywhere and meet with Russian, who - I did not. Listen, so you know: I was one of Raynerlandii represent Russia.

Reiner, who are you, exactly? Not German, but - the whole of Germany! Not Czech, though born in Bohemia (NB! Born in a country which did not yet exist - is right), not Austrian, since Austria was, and you - you will! Is not it beautiful? You - no country! «Le grand poete tchécoslovaque» 5, as written in the Paris journals. Rainer, it's not Slovak Do you? It's ridiculous.

Reiner, dusk, I love you. Boeing train. Trains - a wolf, and wolves - Russia. This is not a train - all of Russia is howling at you. Rainer, not angry at me, be angry or not angry, but tonight I will sleep with you. The gap in the darkness, and, as the stars, I conclude: the window. (I think near the window, if about you and me think - no bedside.) Eyes wide open because the outside is darker than the inside. Bed - a ship, we go on a journey.

... mats un jour on ne Ie vit plus.
Le petit navire sans voiles,
Lasse des oceans maudits,
Voguant au pays des etoiles --
Avait gagne le paradis6.

(children's song from Lausanne)
 

Answer (continue kissing) you are not obliged to.

M.



<...>

Les déserts lieux7 gave me, Boris, and I give it to you.




* See in my sleep or be sleepy, grezimoy?

1 Leidenschaft - Leibeigenschaft.

2 For the most deserted places (Fr.).

3 Seele - Kehle.

4 I am not defending myself, and the most perfect of kisses (Fr.).

5 Great Czechoslovak poet (born).

6

... And then he disappeared in the distance,
Boat or sail,
In open spaces, where the star edge.
Tired of coastal storms,
Once he sailed to Paradise (Fr.).

7 desert area (Fr.).