The Guitar
Somewhere, a guitar is crying.
All around is calm and quiet.
Only the guitar is crying.
The sigh of Silence is audible.
The guitar is crying,
and the last trolley sings
a small duet with her.
Its sad headlights are clever
like dog eyes.
Maybe something has happened:
Perhaps, the dandelion turned grey
or a lilac faded?
Or some silly heart has been broken,
or Day has fallen in love with White Night?
But the sky with his bright stars
looks at the empty street,
and Spring flies over St. Petersburg.
But the guitar still cries.
The guitar cries about what was not.
The guitar cries about broken dreams.
The guitar will cry until morning,
and no one will sleep, this night.
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