The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
If you belive this crap.

Wednesday 14 March 2012

Angelic Angels

I'm reading the last collection of poems, Angels, written by a poet, who died recently. I'm floating in a whole sea of feelings. There's not many people, who interweave the words with such an ease, at least it seems so, and make us, the readers, now happy, and in next moment sad, then a little afraid, then again joyful ... There's not many people, in whose words is hidden that Pippi Longstocking's or Peter Pan's possibility to always keep being a children in their hearts ...
I'm thinking, what king of emotions are running through me ... Am I proud of him, that he could write such great poems? Happiness, when I'm holding a new book in my hands? Expectation? Curiosity? Almost watery eyes that I got when reading the afterword, written by the poet's daughter, in which she describes his last weeks, when all he cared about was that Angels will come out? Fulfillment, when you read someone's words that say exactly what you think, but you can never say this yourself?
I don'k know. Maybe, that's some kind of the comparatist's happiness. :)

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