* * *
Along my street for a few running years
I hear the steps the friends of mine are leaving.
The slow leaving of my dear friends
Is welcomed by the darkness of the evening.
Oh, Solitude, your nature is so coarse.
You start rotating steadily your compass --
How slowly the circles getting closed --
Without attending to my useless promise.
I will tiptoe in your enchanted woods,
Where -- at the end of the belated gesture
Ill find a leaf and bring it to my face,
And sense my orphanhood as a desired rapture.
Grant me the silence of your reading rooms,
Grant me the solemn tunes of your performance
So gaining wisdom I'll forget all those
Who passed away and who are still among us.
Then I will know wisdom and chagrin,
The objects will confide in me their spirit.
The nature leans against my shoulders -- and
Will open up to me its childish secrets.
And only then from darkness and from dreams,
From times -- of hidden innocence -- passed over,
The lovely features of my dear friends
Will come again to disappear forever.
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