There is much to be said

About the infinite

Worlds deep inside my head

But I know not the words;

One must foremost feel it

Rather than understand,

A thousand little birds

Flying out of your hand

Into the bright warm night

As fire from the mist,

Burning the hands that fight,

Rebels from the snow-kissed,

All of the joyous laugh

And the deepest sadness,

Two faces of one half

In a lovely madness

Spinning in evermore,

Dancing in the silence,

Far away from the shore

Without a single glance

And, yet, a myriad looks

Lost in as many books.


In truth, writing is hard.

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