Your girlish shoulders are for blushing, For blushing under whips, and in dawn’s raw ice to shine.   Your child-like hands are for pushing, For pushing flatirons and feed sacks, and knotting twine.   Your feet, infant-tender, are for tiptoeing, Tiptoeing through shattered glass, in the blood-tracked clay.   And I, I am for you, a black candle burning, Like a black candle I am burning, and dare not pray.   (translated from the Russian by Christian Wiman)