The sun slips through my window, low in the west,
Its golden touch upon my face, a soft caress.
A silent reminder of a distant land,
Where Hungarian sonatas once held my hand.
The notes, they stir like whispers in the air,
A heartache hidden in the twilight's glare.
I drift in melancholy, caught between,
Romances past, and fears unseen.
Memories dance in the shadows they cast,
Of love once lost, of wounds that last.
How can I love again, when loss is near?
When the heart still trembles, bound by fear?
The sun fades low, yet lingers still,
As if to ask, if love can heal.
But I turn away, afraid to start,
For fear of breaking once more, my heart.
By. Nurish Hardefty
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