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So you will never find me

So you will never find me—
In this life—with a sharp and invisible
Fence, I encircle myself

With honeysuckle, bind myself,
With hoarfrost, cover myself.

So you will never hear me
At night—with a crone's subtlety:
With reticence—I fortify myself.

With rustlings, bind myself,
With silkiness, cover myself.

So you neither flower nor mold in me
Overmuch—in my undergrowth: in my books
I mislay, I bury you, alive:

With fabrications, bind you,
With any pretense, cover you.

25 June 1922


Marina Tsvetaeva

The Georgia Review

Winter 2016

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