For my poems, written so early
That I didn't even know I was a poet,
Hurled like drops from a fountain,
Like sparks from rockets,

That burst like tiny devils,
Into the sanctuary of sleep and incense,
For my poems about youth and death
-- For my unread poems!

Scattered in dusty bookstores,
Where no one ever buys them!
For my poems, like precious wines,
A time will come.