I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain -
Made up a love so tender and so true
(Translated by Genia Gurarie, 11/10/95 , Pushkin)
In the empty hours of cold Sunday evening the thought of to be loved again the way it happened many years ago arises again. The desire to comfort the soul that lies beyond the mountains renders the heart again. The yearn to dive down with the yellowing light that lowers itself in the hour before dark emerges again. The reflection to trace down the path that we promised to walk surfaces again.
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