Do you depart now, sweet friend of my waiting hours?
A trace of you lingers in the muzzle and eyes of this soft face
But they return not my smell and my look.
And thus you are gone from here.
Saturday morning it was clearly time to let Nadja go. The cancer had compromised her lungs. We're still mourning quietly at home, so don't deluge us with calls and e-mails please. But these thoughts came to me while walking Frida, so they seemed like the right expression for her book.
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