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Love always far, heart all too near

Eyes torn by light, lips charred by tears

Flowing like the seasons of time over

The craven image of the girl, proud ornaments

Of cupid’s gaping gashes across nictitantes

Torn by the sudden blaze of searing desire.

The verse weaver would rather walk blind

Than not see the visage shaping his dithyramb

The only substance, only matter between him

And her, his scorched eyelids

— a palimpsest of the year, every year —

Watered by the seasons, lit by the days of holy

Following the rhythms of the calendar,

Unable to dissolve into the dew of the air.

Poets are blind, holding love closer than a closed eyelid.

Jealous of her distance — infinite space trapped

In the flower of blindness —

“Let me see her, only her,

Or let me see no more!”

The unquenchable desire of eternity

Trapped in the words of the poet,

Sealed with his sighs, kissed by his golden laurels.

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