The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.

Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention.

You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.

The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.

Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.

It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.

The word landed with a stony thud Onto my still-beating breast. Nevermind, I was prepared, I will manage with the rest. I have a lot of work to do today; I need to slaughter memory, Turn my living soul to stone Then teach myself to live again. . . But how. The hot summer rustles Like a carnival outside my window; I have long had this premonition Of a bright day and a deserted house.