Amorphis - Summers End

Then I just remembered the familiar facial features that I had seen so many times on busts and portraits. Liszt dragged his legs heavily and shuffled them noisily on the floor. As he slowly leaned forward, he shifted his gaze from picture to picture and, sticking out his sharpened chin, as if glaring his eyes at the plot. Occasionally he listened to what his companion had told him, shuffled something at his lips, and answered her in French. His senile, slightly nasal voice reached me several times: Charmant, délicieux. But then Janka Wohl noticed me, called me and introduced Liszt. He greeted him cordially and told me a few words in French. Their essence was that for a long time, even from photographs, he admired his brother’s Turkestan paintings and that he liked the picture “Forgotten” the most. In it alone, he said, “whole poetry”.Then he takes my hands with his Hercules hands, shakes them and exclaims animatedly: