I was coming from Tähtvere. It was Sunday evening.
I was the only fare to the final stop.
I stepped out. The road was silent: not a single car.
The wind had fallen silent. Only the stars
and the sickle of the new moon shone above the river.
I felt sorry I had to keep going. I’d have liked to step
off the path onto the wasteland and to stop
to look at that moon, those constellations – several of which
I’d forgotten again during the winter – but most of all
at the sky itself, the blue of the sky that was nearly
as deep and strange as once long ago,
twenty years ago, when we sat and drank wine
around a campfire in the nearby forest, and I came
back to Tartu on a village road with a girl,
arms around each other’s necks.
The blue is much easier to remember
than names, titles or faces,
even the faces of those you once loved.
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