Улетают на юга

It smells like spring and wet asphalt - as if it had just rained somewhere nearby. The letter is composed of simple words, as naive and direct as heartfelt confessions in a school questionnaire. There is no pathos in them, only an honest longing for a meeting, for home, for a light dress that flashed in memory.

Every line is filled with teenage sincerity, where the pain of unfulfilled dreams coexists with hope: ‘call me and I'll come.’ The swans fly south, and with them slips away the chance to be close, but still there remains the belief that one day fate will soften. And this belief sounds as stubborn and touching as a song you hum to yourself in the rain while your shoulders get wet.