Rachy Ven (rxlrycrq)

To my poems, written so early, That I didn’t know that I was a poet, Falling off like splashes from a fountain, Like sparks from rockets Bursting in like little devils In the sanctuary, where sleep and incense are, To my poems about youth and death, - Unread poems! Scattered in the dust around the shops, Where no one took them and no one takes them, My poems are like precious wines, Your turn will come.

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