mood
Walking in the forest, on the bank of the river, I felt surrounded by a kind of joyful melancholy. In moments like this I let myself daydreaming into the realms of the words of Bacovia:
All Lead
Death sleepin’ shells are all of perfect lead,
All lead the hauntin’ bloom and cloth, as well -
Just sounds of silent grave the wind would yell
When the undyin’ wreaths cried, all of lead…
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