[Working draft]
In the dawn a frozen birch
writhes behind the church.
Wait for me there, Don Juan,
though I swear by my groom
and by my life there is no room
for us to kiss there.
Pretty girls fear the eyes Mary’s
icon make once ice fills the wells.
They’re too loud, the bells, to hear.
Leaving now would make me new
but I fear old age too.
This land is not yours, Don Juan.
Your bearskin coat
makes you seem so remote.
Your mouth assures me you are you.
After Tsvetaeva , Дон-Жуан. 1. На заре морозной