May i write u something,
To tell u what i meant,
With august in my mind,
And a mythically lyrical bend.
Where the drops of dew are fresh,
And wings of love in zest,
Which conceals a poetic pain,
In dawn it moistens again.
It’s this secret day’s play,
Where the Potter basks his clay,
And fades the earthly slay,
With its eternal sprouting way.
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