My poems, written early, when I doubted
that I could ever play the poet’s part,
erupting, as though water from the fountain
or sparks from a petard,

and rushing as though little demons, senseless,
into the sanctuary, where incense spreads,
my poems about death and adolescence,
--that still remain unread! --

collecting dust in bookstores all this time,
where no one comes to carry them away,
my poems, like exquisite, precious wines,
will have their day!

May 1913,

Моим стихам, написанным так рано,
Что и не знала я, что я - поэт,
Сорвавшимся, как брызги из фонтана,
Как искры из
Ворвавшимся, как маленькие черти,
В святилище, где сон и фимиам,
Моим стихам о юности и смерти,
- Нечитанным стихам! -
Разбросанным в пыли по магазинам
(Где их
никто не брал и не берет!),
Моим стихам, как драгоценным винам,
Настанет свой черед.

Май 1913,

Written by Marina Tsvetaeva, 1892-1941. Translated by Andrey Kneller, whose book of poetry translations from Boris Pasternak and Vladimir Mayakovsky, The Golden Mouthed, was published in 2005. His own poetry has appeared in The Susquehanna Quarterly, The National Forum: Phi Kappa Phi Journal, Raintown Review, Unlikely Stories and others.

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