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The Lost Hour

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It was the most beautiful in someone’s life, She did not know whose life, but she was a beautiful hour, had a good feeling of contentment, fulfillment …

A complaint had yet! She tried to sit in a clock and could not find her place … Among the other morning hours she felt uncomfortable, the others were too hasty, as if those hands of the clocks where she seek accommodation swirled too quickly, and the hours that had already occupied their seats seemed too concerned, had no time for her joy and wellness. Among the afternoon hours was even worse, they seemed old, tired, suffering, mischief, even peevish … She tried to stick to the night hours, she thought here will be easier to find her place, that the tired, sleepy hours, will no reject her, maybe not even be put her into consideration … But the remained place on the clocks dial was so tight … and snoring of nocturnal hours depressed her so hard …

A few days she rested on the dial of a clock in which hours were gone because the clock hands had been broken by a fickle child, and the mechanism was spoiled by the artisans that had been lacking inspiration, thieves and ready to take what they ought to manufacture themselves.

The brass cover of the clock batty laughed while he told her: “You’re not an HOUR, you’re nothing, you’re lost in our world, that’s why you do not find your place!”

So the hour fell on thoughts and finally remembered: it was the dreaming hour of a young man who lived during that time all the beauty of life who had no part. Then he threw from the roof of the home where he stood and where he could not pay the rent … His brain was scattered on the  wet and dirty stone pavement, and his dreaming hour was gone, giddy, to find a place …

(Translated from aMorale, by Marius Cilibia)

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