II.

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My dear,
I am sorry for weeping,
my gaze is as blue as melancholy,
my song soft as snow
as I whisper weeps these weathered months

My conscience is seldom at ease
neither my thoughts.
There you sit, beaming so happily.
What do you drink?
Serve me what he’s got.

Perceiving is an art
I have not yet mastered
the thought of liberation,
let alone the act.

A harmonious liberation desired,
in time
the clock whispers,
sweetly chimes
choirs heard, bliss ahead
it is all in the head.
I have only to achieve.

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