O lines of mine (your birth so distant past is
that, of my craft, I noticed no marks)
that blew away akin to fountain sparkles,
akin to rocket sparks,
like little devils, broke in the homes
of deities, full of doze and incense mist,
of blooming youth and death my early poems,
- that everyone has missed! -
In dark and dust collecting traders' curses
(as no by-passer values you a dime),
One day, like precious wines, my early verses,
you will be just in time.
Original: www.tsvetayeva.com/poems/moimstiham