| I once wrote some poems of stillness and silence,
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| standing by rivers of reflected light:
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| my thoughts were on being loved and yet unloved, too —
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| I surrendered to the warmth of the night.
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| And now I feel like dying,
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| and if the water were still here, it would
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| hold me close.
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| I once wrote a poem while walking on gravestones,
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| as cobbles, rain and tear lashed down my face…
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| I then felt my whole world was fading
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| as memories jostled and fell into place.
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| And now I feel like dying,
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| and the pain of old fires still burns.
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| I never wrote poems when I bit my knuckles
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| and Death started slipping into my mouth…
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| but that was really a long time ago,
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| and I’m not writing poems now.
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| And though I don’t feel quite like dying,
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| there is something deep inside me softly crying.
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| And though I don’t feel quite like dying
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| there is something deep inside me softly… |