in the cloudy day,
her tears instead of the rain,
covered the face.
already evening.
quiet footsteps at the door,
but it is not he.
she feels the loneliness of the tree,
which is withering in silence,
abandoned.
longing is killing,
good thoughts are escaping,
an emptiness is remaining.
the bright morning,
the walk, and the sun is dancing,
in flounces of her skirt.
return home,
and in the door he is standing
and then… again tea in two…
At the August evening
on the terrace
he is telling fairy tales for her
from the thousand… about one night.
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