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Madame Ranevskaya’s Reverie  

poem 2 of a Chekhovian suite

I dance beneath boughs heavy with spring,  

wine-warm laughter on my tongue.  

The air tastes of childhood and lost letters—  

murmurs of father, of home.  
 

Yet every footstep echoes farewell;  

hope, a threadbare gown I once wore.  

I sip nostalgia like champagne—  

sweet, effervescent, and gone too fast.  

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