I must grow used to longing
for your absent face—
with weeping eyes,
accustomed to the ache.
My cup lies empty now.
From this moment on,
I shall fill it only with regret.
Though I am far from you,
whenever I close my eyes,
you appear—
seen by the heart,
called by a hundred whispered prayers.
Where is the one who,
in the night of parting,
sighs into the...
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