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Grey Hairs

 These are ashes of treasures:
Of hurt and loss.
These are ashes in face of which Granite is dross.
Dove, naked and brilliant, It has no mate.
Solomon's ashes Over vanity that's great.
Time's menacing chalkmark, Not to be overthrown.
Means God knocks at the door -- Once the house has burned down! Not choked yet by refuse, Days' and dreams' conqueror.
Like a thunderbolt -- Spirit Of early grey hair.
It's not you who've betrayed me On the home front, years.
This grey is the triumph Of immortal powers.

by Marina Tsvetaeva
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