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Two children
Are blooming the lobby
of the poem,
The brownishness of
theirs is but tunes,
Enfolding the wind.
They, thence, filch
whistling from his own solitude.
He has them to cross
with him over
To the land of violet
clouds.
Over there,
Their poem flourishes
Without frost
Without snow slaying
the sills of the poetic verses therein.
Two children are
blooming,
Perhaps. |
How often
Can we subdue time,
Through the single
windows of his,
We take him aback we
are possessed of a body
Capable of dancing,
and breaths savoring panting
And craving for
exultation at the taste of love.
How often
Can we makes sport
with the night canopy of his,
And grub out the
entombed petulance of his
In the threads of his
freedom.
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