A bow screamed. A cloud stuffy
Has stood above us. The nightingales
We saw in dream. The body docile
Has slided into my embrace.
Not nightingale. It was a voilin.
When string broke up, the silence deep
Was crying loud, loud ringing
As in the spring grove, indeed.
As in that grove to the sounds
Of cry the May storm entered...
The fearful hands let moving tighter,
The closed eyes burned tempted...
14 May 1914
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