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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,
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