In This Night, the Colors of a Sad Violinist

With longing, the thought of her burns, secret — mischievous, rather sinful touches, curls of hair, dissolved by white breasts And screams scream painfully in the temples. It's a long time before dawn. Imagination played out, on the edges of soft beds, catching her trembling shadows. This night she is not here, she left me, still hope wrapped in a white handkerchief. The moon sang over the plain, cheering the warm wind, which, like unhappy divorced women, wept and cried in the branches of the pines, under which I waited for it. In this night, the colors of a sad violinist.