Reading Dostoyevsky
on an icy April morning
makes for strange moods:
the tender fears
of lovers and dreamers
are carefully unveiled
and left to make us wonder
why moments of bliss
can never last
a lifetime.
The very nature
of those lost moments
(fleeting and poignant)
will return to us
on long evenings
only to
render our dreams useless
and make the mundane
all the more real.
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