One day, early in the morning, tossing off the gray blanket of dawn, the sun lifted its head from its mountain pillow and saw that the season of love had arrived in the valley of the heart. And on the branches of memory, countless flower buds of past moments were starting to scent the air. Unvoiced, unheard longings, half conscious and half unconscious, were waking, rubbing their eyes, looking around. Life flows like waves, wave upon wave, every moment new, but nevertheless always the same. Yes, life! in whose folds there is both love and grief, meetings as well as partings. It flows and ripples, and as it passes us, it tells of a season of love arrived in the valley of hearts, where, on the branches of memory, countless flower buds of past moments have started to scent the air.