I take no special joy in odic orders
Or tangles of an elegiac hike.
To me, a verse should be across the borders,
Unlike what people like.
Don't be surprised atop what kind of garbage
The verses grow, feeling no shame,
Like yellow dandelions by the dark hedge,
Like burdock or wild grain.
A rant of anger, tar scent from a swing door,
A stain of mold resembling something new,
And there you go; a poem, cheeky, tender,
Delighting me and you.
Original: www.stihi-rus.ru/1/Ahmatova/72.htm