Читать книгу: «Love in the little things»

© Хасан Ниязов, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-2739-4

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Prologue

In Paris – heart of starry dreams,

Where light and passion twine unseen,

There lives a tale among the trees

Of how the small can hold the keen.

No storm decides, nor fire fierce,

Not thunder’s roar, nor wrath of time —

But just a glance, a sudden warmth

Can seal a mortal’s fate, sublime.

For love lives not in storms or words,

Nor vows, nor roses dressed in flame —

It breathes in simple, daily deeds,

In fleeting looks that have no name.

Song I – The Meeting

Within the house of Valeroy,

That proudly towers near the Seine,

The nobles gathered, glow and joy —

An autumn ball rang out its strain.

There shone Hélène – as young as spring,

Her soul as pure as morning skies,

She glowed, as though a bell did ring

Of vernal hope in golden light.

Her eyes – azure, deep and clear,

Held wisdom, mystery, and unease.

And all who gazed could not forget

Their haunting beauty, for long years.

Beside her – Henri, poet’s heart,

Somewhat older, thirty, more.

A dreamer, seeker, set apart,

A quiet soul, yet rich in lore.

He read each look, each fleeting spark,

And sensed in her a closeness rare —

As though a gift of heaven’s mark

Had lit her smile with tender flare.

Their words began as idle play:

Of fashion, books, of fleeting fame.

But then by chance, a phrase conveyed,

Unveiled a truth no jest could tame.

– “Do you believe that life’s a game?”

Asked Hélène, softly, with a smile.

– “At times, a game. At times – a flame,

At times – a shadow, dark, hostile.”

So light began their destined road,

Where every glance was secret sign,

Where every step, though small, bestowed

A world, a miracle, divine.

And Fate’s own threads, unseen, had wound

Persistent, stubborn, hand in hand.

And in his heart, where rhymes had sound,

Now burned a passion, fierce and grand.

Song II – The Bond

In days when Paris bloomed with grace,

When summer drifted o’er the Seine,

When every soul felt love’s embrace,

And dreams seemed endless, without end —

Hélène and Henri met once more:

At gilded balls, in shaded lanes,

In evening hush their voices soared,

Like fairy whispers, soft refrains.

Their meetings were no secret – known,

Their names were spoken with a smile.

But what were dances, masks, or tone,

Compared to moments, shared awhile?

Each fleeting glance – a gift divine,

Each spoken word – a gentle stream.

The day became a crystal wine,

That poured their hearts in living dream.

With Hélène always walked Camille —

Her childhood friend, so sharp, so free.

In her there burned a wit and zeal,

A heart as warm as home could be.

She laughed: “Oh, madame, I see

Your head is lost among the skies!

Your Henri – hardly shame, to me…

You’ve read his soul with knowing eyes.”

– “Oh, Camille,” Hélène replied,

Her cheeks alight with gentle flame,

“He’s kind, he’s honest, as the tide —

In every word lives truth and aim.”

Camille sighed: “Love is a game

Where hearts are pawns, or crowns, or fire.

But if a spark has made its claim,

It burns all doubts, lifts spirits higher.”

Henri, meanwhile, was not alone.

He had a friend, both strong and true:

It was Jules – sharper mind was none,

No loyalty more constant too.

Cynical, bold, with tongue of steel,

His wit could cut, his glance was keen.

Yet under jest lay depths concealed,

A secret fire, seldom seen.

– “You’re in love?” he asked, with jest.

– “I am,” said Henri, soft, sincere.