From: ibshambat@gmail.com   
      
   Longing for homeland! Long ago   
   Exposed torment! To me   
   It is completely all the same   
   Where completely lonely to be,   
      
   By which stones on the road home   
   With the bazaar knapsack to drag   
   Home, not knowing, that it's mine,   
   Like hospital or a barrack.   
      
   It's same to me, among which faces   
   Like an imprisoned lion to bristle,   
   And from among which people's midst   
   To be forced out - without fail -   
      
   Into oneself, into individual feelings.   
   As polar bear without ice floe   
   Where not to live - it's the same to me   
   (And I don't dare) - where to go low.   
      
   I won't be tempted by the milky   
   Call of the tongue of my homeland.   
   It is the same to me on which   
   People me would misunderstand.   
      
   (To reader of newspaper tons,   
   To gulper, milker of rumors.) He   
   Is of the twentieth century,   
   And I - of any century!   
      
   Grown petrified just like a log   
   Remaining only of an alley,   
   They're all the same, it's all the same,   
   And maybe most the same - to me -   
      
   Dearer than everything that was.   
   All marks from me, all signs that were,   
   All dates - brushed off as if by hand:   
   Soul, that had once been born - somewhere.   
      
   Thus my land did not keep me there,   
   That the detective most keen   
   Along the soul, across it all!   
   The birthmark has not sought or seen!   
      
   Alien is home, temple - empty,   
   And all's the same and one to me.   
   But if along the road a bush   
   Rises, especially - ashberry...   
      
   By Marina Tsvetayeva   
   Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)