PP show by Vili

THE ORATION ON

LOVE

If you love each other with love which flourishes in loneliness, fed

with distance, which has been made of dream more

than of will, even after parting, if ever led to

instance to encounter, you will tremble with

thrill. 

You who love each other with the hermits' grace, 

in fright of the sinful desire, you who break your wings as a bird

against its cage, you will remember each other's face. 

Even after parting your subdued longings are not to

expire. 

If you cannot sleep because od her and at midnight, awake, through your

garden you stroll with no peace, 

if you are being harassed by crazy yearning ardent, 

from the remembrance of her you'll never have release. 

Those who we play with around the bonfire, 

still dreading to touch the flame, those who we walk with along the

abyss nonembraced and silent, 

those ones we will remember long, even if we love some others after. 

Music: Armik - Romantic Dreams

If you wish her beyond the bourn, and still you sit voiceless by her side listening to a fairy-tale arising in you

two, similar to a morn, 

you'll remember her even when the winter 

spreads its white all wide. 

If you believe, sitting beside her, that love is a dandelion's seed 

which may be knocked off by a touch, if you love the dream and the child in

her heart, if you feal empty and deaf without her

indeed, the thought of her will be waking you

up even after you depart. 

Forever we remember really these with whom we never caressed, 

whose lips remained unknown to us, to whom we were writing a letter 

only at spring, in reveries. 

Those ones who cannot converge like rivers, 

who have no binding vein for floods of fervent blood to roar, and still their hearts are calling like

insane, those will not forget each other even when their souls are hoar. 

If love is for you the knife in your heart, 

and to pull it out you dread, as you will die that very moment, 

he will remember you, he will recall you 

even on his dying bed. 

Those ones who make us feel our own hearts as a wound, 

but the wound that is only worth living, 

in our memory they rebound even after we fall in love with others - 

and then we feel woeful, like we deserve not forgiving.

Poem by Desanka Maksimovic