Washington Square Park l am still standing with a throb on the same spot you let Your phone suddenly drop in excitement after the Met. Looking you my way, I saw The sad beauty of Anna Karenina Dissolving in your face as a sough Whispering your name: Kateryna. Within the confines of the park The birds dreamed on their treetop Of the night developing its plot Of lights and shadows into the dark. Now that spot is my mausoleum. I see from there the nights depart To eternally return to the museum Where your face turns into Art.
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