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It is somehow new, willingly
placing the self in the unknowable
the blindness of beauty in autumn
a mere moment in a life time unlived
hoping to catch sustenance and peace
perhaps for the first time, a memory
rising into the furthest stars in heaven,
even if god is absent in it all, we are.
Letters flow within dew drops
brilliant in their persistent love
yet unnoticed by passing droves
claiming me for its enchantment
only the moon between my fingers
ready to surrender its secrets
a history of words, not yet spoken,
these conscious hopes now woven.
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Carlos
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