When I wait for her to come at night,
Life seems to hang by a thread.
What honors, what youth, what freedom
In front of a lovely guest with a pipe in her hand.
And then she came in. Throwing back the covers,
She looked at me carefully.
I tell her: “Did you dictate to Dante?
Pages of Hell? Answers: “I am!”

Design

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.

Rachy Ven

@rxlrycrq