For my poems, written so early
That I didn’t even know I was a poet,
Hurled like drops from a fountain,
Like sparks from rockets,
That burst like tiny devils,
Into the sanctuary of sleep and incense,
For my poems about youth and death
— For my unread poems!
Scattered in dusty bookstores,
Where no one ever buys them!
For my poems, like precious wines,
A time will come.
(Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva)
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Based on Topics: Time Poems, Sleep Poems, Literature Poems, Poets Poems, Poetry Poems, Devils PoemsBased on Keywords: bookstores