Wednesday, 21 March 2007

Marina Tsvetaeva

Passing me by, as you walk
To charms doubtful and not mine -
If you but knew how much fire,
How much life is wasted in vain,

On the rustling, occasional shade
What a heroic flame -
And how enflamed my heart
This gunpowder wasted in vain!

O the trains flying into the night,
Carrying sleep on the station away..
If you recognized - if you but knew -
Then and there, I know, anyway.

Why are my words so sharp
In the smoke of my cigarette -
How much dark and menacing angst
Is there in my light-haired head.

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