Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (8 October 1892 – 31 August 1941 / Moscow)
Over meadow stands new moon,
Over boundary of dew.
Come, we'll make a friend of you,
Dear, distant, alien.
In the day I hide, am quiet.
Moon above - I have no might!
I rush on this lunar night
To the shoulder of beloved.
I'll never ask me, 'Who's he?'
All to know, your lips will say!
Hugs are rude but in the day,
In the day the fit is funny.
In the day, torn by a demon proud,
With a smile on lips I lie.
Night, though.. Darling, far away..
Crescent stands above the wood!
Comments about this poem (New Moon by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva )
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