Читать книгу Virtuoso - Yelena Valer'evna Moskovich - Страница 5

When I dream it’s of you

My love, my friend

When I sing it’s for you

My love, my friend

(Marie Laforêt, “Mon amour, mon ami”)

… and huge stars,

above the feverish head, and hands,

reaching out to the one,

who hasn’t for ages existed—and won’t exist—

who cannot exist—and must exist.

(Marina Tsvetaeva, “Nights without the beloved …”)