They all speak about the same thing

 



 
     Nightingales of monastery garden,
     Like all nightingales flying above,
     Say that there is but one joy in living,
     And that this joy comes in form of love.

     And the monastery meadows flowers
     With the tenderness just flowers possess,
     Say theres but one merit: Lovers
     Touch their lips together and caress.

     And, filled to the brim with blueness endless,
     Lakes among the monastery wood,
     Say: Theres no more azure glance
     Than in those who love and who are loved.
 
 
 © Copyright Igor Severyanin