““Lovers were not, Marina, are not permitted to know destruction so deeply. Must be as if they were new. Only their grave is old, only it ponders and darkens under the sobbing tree, remembering all that has been. Only their grave collapses; they are supple as reeds; what bends them too far, rounds them into rich garlands. How they blow about in the May wind! From the midst of the Ever, in which you breathe and surmise, the moment has shut them out. (Oh how I understand you, female flower on the same imperishable stalk. How wildly I scatter myself into the night air that in a moment will touch you.)…” ―from Elegy: to Marina Tsvetayeva-Efron””
