To You Soon the autumn will be burned All its weeping flowers will be washed by the snow The time of mourning is still away And the road is short The dreary night comes Burdened with a smell of absence Your face, when I miss it, turns to a sweet inhalation With a taste of nectar
From a distance, his voice, running, came to me From behind the whispers of the clouds and the murmurs of the rain I closed this door and that window My fingers were muting my hearing But it entered Pulsated with my pulsing And lightened the darkness that was here.
