When I look at the flying leaves…

When I look at the flying leaves,
To fly to the end of the cobbled,
Sour cream – as an artist's brush,
The picture ends at last,

I think (so no one's liking
Neither my camp, nor all my thoughtful look),
What is distinctly yellow, strongly rusty
One such sheet to the top – forgotten.

20-th of September 1936

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Marina Tsvetaeva
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