in most gentle memory of Marina Tsvetaeva*

           
           
           
           
           
carry love on the frail ice surface- up in skies                
sang saucy songs for those incomplete lovies wallowing on fatigue of your bones                
bleed plain dedications  to imaginative  lover who would be able to love you like you used to love-to the limits..                
even if urge to love to the limits is urge to death, as wisely coined one of the most odious man of all times and folks           
you little dancer on the tightrope, lunatic of two dark moon, yer bits were not the fruits of your imagination, but glowing pulse self., pulse of yer rabid blood through wild tempests which life serves, you blindly guess every next step, for you are less of dainty narcissus                
whereas you are a scarlet clove reflecting at once ethereal  joy and deep grief of dew on your flower's skin                
mother, lover and poéte maudit, you presaged your poems will ever be green                
Poet-punk - the magic flame, your verses will live                  
even then when punk is dead, amen                
             
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
*on the day of her death on 31august 1941