Night is a curious thing. For some of us it’s time to enjoy dreams, for some it’s time to suffer from insomnia. For some it’s just the time to start doing something productive, for some it’s the end of a working day. Time spent under the cover of night always has in it a note of secrecy. To many of us nights never last long enough. For Marina Tsvetaeva, though, night was the time to have a conversation with herself, the time of spiritual pursuits and reflections. It is no accident that her poem “The Night” ("In my giant city it is night…») was included into the cycle of poems titled “Insomnia”.
As if it was a shard of glass, a line from another of Tsvetaeva’s poems - «The whole sea needs all heavens…» pierces the lyrics. That poem consists of only two lines, and this one is the first of them. The second line slips away from one’s consciousness like a dream that disappears by the morning…
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