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Tsvetaeva, "Маме"

A work ("To Mom") by this Russian poet. You can read the original here.

So much is lost to endless dark,
Extracts from heart’s immortal strands!
Sad lips, your lips, have left their mark,
Luxuriant locks fall on our hands.

Breath slowed upon a notebook space,
Bright rubies’ gleam unites our stare;
And our soft bed reflects your face,
Your smile, your love, is always there.

As wounded birds remind us still
Of youthful woe, your unsaid pleas;
So teardrops wash our lashes’ frill,
As silence shut the piano keys.

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