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A feeling of infinite dreary

The first days of June, the end of spring.

Light clothes and scented nights

We have known each other recently.

Communication between us is like a raging river, despite the age difference (he could be my father).

We communicate even when we don’t speak, looking deeply into each other’s eyes.

The night surprises us sitting on a bench.

Suddenly I am overwhelmed by a feeling of infinite sadness for the poignant beauty of the fleeting moment.

I’m 19 and still can’t understand exactly what I feel.


He immediately perceives what I am feeling.

He looks at me, takes a deep breath, and recites me a poem.

I am still a young student, but I also have a solid literary culture.

It is an unusual poem, one that I can never forget.

He bewitched me. He and his poetry.

A river of words hammers my ears and mind – ‘ wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ‘.

THE RAVEN is a narrative poem of love and death.


He is a unique person.

He loves ‘after’ like ‘before’ and is never in a hurry while he makes love.

He caresses me, and he calls me ‘my little dove’.

He tells me that he feels a deep sense of peace after making love with me.

But that night, another bird was evoked.

That same raven, black as night.


It is no coincidence that from that moment, the colour black became for us a symbol in our communications, a sort of message in code,

and it is always present in our most intimate and secret life.

Even after 40 years.

Even now that he is dead.

Black is an intensely erotic colour.

I always thought it was (at least subconsciously) also for Edgar Allan Poe.

His literary women always end up, dressed in virginal white, inside a black coffin sooner or later.

Black remains a colour always in fashion and is perfect for women’s lingerie.


That poem sealed the beginning of a story that will never end.

Even in the darkness of the grave, on the wings of a raven.


I believe that love is not a feeling at all.

Most people call love what passion, affection, tenderness, and projection of their own desires for possession and redemption is.

Less frequently, it is also a feeling of esteem and profound respect.

In my experience, love is a state of being:

I ‘became love’ because of that person, and I discovered that I am no longer who I was before.

Love means turning into a different, completely new person.

And being cannot vanish, fade into thin air.

So, do you seriously think love can end?

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