We don’t know how to say goodbye,We wander on, shoulder to shoulderAlready the sun is going downYou’re moody, and I am your shadow.Let’s step inside a church, hear prayers, masses for the deadWhy are we...
—Anna Akhmatova
Not sorry, not calling, not cryingAll will pass like smoke of white apple treesSeized by the gold of autumn,I will no longer be young.
—Sergei Yesenin
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