The nightingale pressed against the thorns, and the thorns brushed against his heart and he felt, inside, a cruel moment of pain. The more bitter his pain, the more impetuous was his song, because he sang the sublimated love of death, the love that does not end in the grave.
المُتابَعون
قم بالتسجيل كي تنضم إلى أكبر مجتمع لرواية القصص
أو