Who will, etc

A time of stagnation, no regrets of the poem.

The loss of loneliness makes him find that none of his poems belong to him. He had the most beautiful world but lost himself. When the hen laid an egg, he would commemorate it with a poem about devotion and maternal selflessness. And he forgot that it was his birthday, too. He knew that he was not like a chicken that broke out of its shell. All the attention was on his flowery words and rich imagination, on his wonderful poetry and his eclectic writing style, forgetting that he liked riding horses and sweeping the floor. The poet decided to look for himself as he burned his last composition. He stopped his life for a breather, and he decided to write a poem for himself, one that was unrepentant.

Two stare, that immortal poem.

As his poems faded away, leaving only the last vestige in the press, all those who had been following him began to stir. Soon there was silence, and these secular people began to think that this extraordinary poet might be preparing a masterpiece, or that he might have gone to dance with white pigeons in Prague's squares, or that he was already in the company of death. All who watch him wait in imagination, and he waits and stares, and stares at those immortal verses.

The Three Seine, the other half of the world is poetry.

The headlines said he had been seen on the Seine in France, and there were pictures of him standing on a shady meadow by the river, gazing across at a small wooden house, a lonely figure in a romantic country that began to drift in the setting sun. Everyone began to wonder. The poet has taken refuge in the Seine?

The poet sat down in a wooden chair and after reading the newspaper which discussed him, wrapped it up with the breakfast and went out of the hotel door and walked to the river where he was standing on the green side of the river as the newspaper said.

Across the river from the grass, I gazed at a log cabin. At the window of the log cabin, there was a figure as lonely as the poet. Occasionally the figure floated to the door and stood there. That is a beautiful woman, fleecy golden hair comes loose and not disorderly, continuously filar silk flies upwards gently in the wind, flat and the forehead of clear and white still has not had time to leave the brand of time on, and double eyebrow is being fastened all the time however, the son of that pair of eyes below eyebrow is limpish like Seine na river, source is far, abstruse, as if to have the story that cannot say and cang mulberry. The melancholy in his eyes was something the poet had never seen before. He gazed deeply into the distance, toward the point where the Seine river meets the horizon. In the evening, occasionally, there would be a postman on his bicycle, who called loudly before he reached the door of the cabin: "Yusha, a letter from Ryan". At such times the forlorn woman would be overjoyed, go barefoot to meet the postman, and plunge into the house until the morning sun glinted the Seine. And this is what the poet wants to see every day, just like this woman is an endless book, the poet would come to the river early every day to read, read his sadness, read his desolation, read his eyes and ecstasy. After reading her, the poet will write the other half of the world.

Chapter IV Who is whose poem

"During......" The poet would repeat this name every day. Along the Seine river, he drew a perfect picture with grass, wooden houses, setting sun and postmen. The harmonious scenery was carefully taken care of by the poet, so the poet never thought of crossing the river to tell her that he was his goddess and that he was the new birth of his poetry. But just like you see the riddle of a riddle, the poet can not bear the torture of curiosity, he read the riddle: a fishman told the poet, Yusha's husband went to the front. For three years now, Yusha has been alone in that home, that cabin, waiting to be reunited with her husband. The poet was silent. Yusha is the goddess. It's his poem. And Ryan is all of Yusha, is Yusha's poetry, is yusha's lifetime expectations!

Five poems for whom

All were anxious and losing patience. A new and distinguished group of poets took his place, and a more attractive poem led people into another new world, forgetting the poet, a blessing of time.

The postman sent Ryan's last letter, which contained Ryan's smile and tears. He flew into the sky, and she threw herself into the arms of the Seine... .

The only remaining poet, wrote this waiting... .