This pad, this paper, this pen.
All secondary.
This specific arrangement
So elusive.
Like, quietly now into the thrush,
Shall we follow this deception
Born thereof?
But whatever I've been trying to say all along
Is just a whisper
Compared to the dawn.
Sun, light of sun: A thousand lights are made as one
Inside my empty palm.
Now, what ear to hear this mystery?
Another day, another day
I will be.
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