The Poet's Princess

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What about me?

Unable to say “Farewell, Sarasin”, I cling to the remains of our days past. The world is steeped in an ominous silence. The chestnut tree lifts its budding branches towards the sky. Next spring we shall not be together, Poet!

Stripped of your protective presence, helpless and exposed to the wind, I scream with terror. The crystal bowl on the silver stand shatters. Its splinters, spilled on my grandmother’s Persian carpet, crumble into a chalky dust.

We are splitting apart, Poet.

You learnt me many things, Poet! The most important ones: the words.

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