When I watch the flight of leaves,
To the cobblestones at my feet,
Swept up – as if by an artist,
Whose picture’s at last complete,
I think how (already no one likes
My figure, face deep in thought)
A strongly yellow, decidedly rusty,
Leaf, there at the crown’s – forgot.
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (1892 – 1941) Russia
Translated by A. S. Kline
Source: Poetry in Translation
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