The path winds through the fields and hides in the ripening rye. You walk toward me in a white flowery dress. You lead the dawn by the hand, and there is no more beautiful dawn. I look and look into your eyes and see the azure blue of the skies. In this predawn silent hour the copper dew ascends. The path brought us together not without reason. The sleepy fields lie quietly from north to south. The earth’s face is freckled with daisies. The grass tinkles sweetly in the wind. I feel as if the path ends right in my heart.

The photograph is mine: birch trees in Siberia.

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