I'm still alive. That may be soon
a sin. Perhaps these days to live
is not the human thing to do.
Perhaps this age is iron and all
must fall. Perhaps it's not the poet
anymore who writes the poem.
(tr. Paul Schmidt)
This poem of Marina Tsvetaeva dates from 1918; I'm afraid her life got only worse from there, and the poem was all too prophetic. Her husband was killed by the Soviet regime in 1941; she herself committed suicide soon after.
One last poem themed for Women in Translation month, hosted by Biblibio.
I'm scheduling this post in advance, but here's hoping Jennifer (the founder of Poem for a Thursday) has posted something new.