It is life in slow motion, it`s the heart in reverse, it`s a hope-and-a-half: too much and too little at once. It`s a train that suddenly stops with no station around, and we can hear the cricket, and, leaning out the carriage door, we vainly contemplate a wind we feel that stirs the blooming meadows, the meadows made imaginary by this stop. Translated by A. PoulinSourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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