To what I wrote when I was so much younger
To even be aware I was a bard,
To what sprung forth like splashes from a fountain,
Like sparks from a bombard,
To what once burst like naughty little devils
Into a sanctuary of dreams and candlelight,
To what I wrote to tell about good and evil
-- To my unknown rhymes!
To all those rhymes that in some dusty shops are buried
For nobody to ever read or buy,
To them will time one day give their due, no doubt,
Like to some precious wines.
Marina Tsvetaeva (translated by A.A.)
***
© Copyright: Ара Асатурян, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116101501976
Свидетельство о публикации №116101501976
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