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Archive for September, 2014

Peace is not poured until we pass the prism
Of mind, filled with echoes of a ruined glory.
An old teacher with his tattered clothes and beard,
Romping in rugged, restless reasons of this world
Will not guide until there is music in his story.

And when it plays, it plays like an orchestra of love,
Of memories in muddled pages of one’s history.
There is a flute at distance so much in tune,
That can surrender my feelings that shiver and shove.
Turn over like an old leaf, a thought that doesn’t weigh more.
A parable of love, life and light sung in glory.
I have not lost, not lurched, not an old acre grown
In these years and the leaves that I crossed in tear.
Just a drop, a dazzle, the wind, a victory, a whisper,
All fill this emptied sepulchral loneliness of the moon.
A wish that I can see my men stand together.

I will come back again, I have the phoenix in me alive.
I will not count the memories, but more love to give.

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