Margarita de Sevre was roaming the cozy streets of Paris, diving into the midst of nostalgic memories.
I was brooding over, where her place of power was. I reflected a lot, and it seems like it is in Paris in anticipation of spring. It is when sadness fades away in the cold February air. I go along the narrow streets of Montmartre, turning into every backstreet. I sit on the bench, think about those windows, dreaming about nothing.
I am on my way down the streets, counting steps and the time of the melancholy. This city is gray in the daytime, but in the evenings the sun lies on the balconies and shadows dance behind the windows. Real people live life and love real. The flow of people is moving along the sidewalks. I used to feel better when it is a crowd around. No one knows who you are. No one knows where it hurts. This city is like personal psychotherapy. It was always Paris to reconcile with a strange reality on different winding roads.
My heart is calling. My heart is calling… Where is your heart, Margarita? Where is your house? The winter, people, routes and new doors are changing again. The windows of the low first floor in my old house are shut.
Only memories are unchangeable.
Wherever you are, I am with you here in Paris. I remember you, Niko. My Pirosmani. My painter of love.
I am thanking you. Despite this love was not answered, your roses in my heart blossom forever. Your millions of ruby roses. Your millions of pieces of love. I can’t stop watching me with your eyes.
Love never ends. It is always alive. And every spring blossoms again just like a rose. Just take your time to wait for a while. 💖Happy Valentine’s day, dears!
Be in love and roses.