O the spirit of my being—the moss
growing to the stone abound on plateau—
wishes to view seas, be promiscuous,
to prove its worth, and if not, overthrow.
Climb high to any peak, breathe, ponder o’er cliff
and find advantage in our beautiful
landscape, the face of our mother, and sift
sleeping waters; look there! a beau to hold.
With fingers laced and twin sights intertwined,
with hope reflecting off of light mirror,
a tremendous tranquil calm in her find
a name to call out when death carries fear.
By and by, keep vision away from skies
and, instead, live and dwell in lovers’ eyes.


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