The poems grow like stars, or roses,
Like beauty useless in the family;
For endings or apotheosis
I do not claim authority.
We dream, and through the plates of stone -
A heavens' guest with syllables;
Admit: the poets in their dreams
See clues to things insoluble.
- Marina Tsvetaeva,1918
Trans. Vic Postnikov,2010
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem