If you are leaving, my apple leaves quietly
with the young spring the murmur of the stream, in silence. Don't leave behind the open flowers, the conceived fruits, the pollen on the bee's wings and that gleam in the eye that makes everything bloom and wither. And do not leave, when the Snowdrops bow their heads to the Primrose in their moment of glory. Under the glare of the sun at dusk, everything stops for a minute of silence. If you are leaving, my apple, let it be a secret, that the birds do not hear singing, that the moon does not see the new moon, that the scrolls do not feel sadness, and that love takes its breath away.
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