M.Tsvetaeva
And in the days,
When I had written
Stances,
I never knew
The poet
I had been;
The verse
Did flash,
As if a splash
From fount,
A rocket trace
On the celestial
Skin.
To verse that if
A tiny playful demon,
Who sneaks within
The most somnific
Shrine,
To verse of mine
The verse of death
And living,
The verse,
That’s read
By not a single one…
To scattered verse
On dusty shelves
Of bookstores,
Where none does take,
Or lay an eye upon,
The verse of mine,
As if a precious liqueur,
Awaits its turn
That is still sure
To come!
M. Tsvetaeva М. Цветаева Моим стихам
© Copyright: Марина Фарамазян, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124121604457
Свидетельство о публикации №124121604457
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