Any flesh is marked with special spots
From such an early time, I believe.
And if I would not be a some of poet,
I were a swindler and a nasty thief.
I was a thin and short fellow,
Among the boys I was a hero.
Often, often with a broken mouth
I came to my home enviro.
And towards frightened mother own
I muttered through a bloody mouth:
\"Nothing! I tripped over a sharp stone,
It will all heal by tomorrow transit!”
And now, when the boiling ligature
Of these days has get a slight cold,
Spilled on my poems .restless , daring power.
A golden, verbal heap at all.
A golden, verbal heap obeyed,
And above each line endlessly
The former daring of a tomboy
And a rascal is reflected still.
As then, I am brave and proud,
Only my steps are splashed with newness...
If before they hit me in the snout,
Now my soul is all in red blood mess.
Now I’m not talking to my mother,
But to an alien and laughing canailles:
“It’s okay! I tripped over a stone rather -
It will all heal by tomorrow at least!”