The rivers sing the odes of the ocean, and the breeze the lullabies of the trees. The winter sun remoulds the frozen figures of the night, and the mother shapes the child with her endless love. The gentle voice and touch of a beloved fans the glowing embers of a heart, and the love ignites into a bright magnificence.

The silence of the waking day subdue the voices of the night, and the darkness of the starless skies deny the peace to linger past the light. The echoes of a broken dream and hope set free now beat the drums at night in heated passion, and they blow with furious lust the booming trumpets of prosaic disaffection.

Behind a static screen a lover dances to the silence, and the shuffle echoes in the empty air, till the thin white curtain falls and drapes the watcher and fashions a ghost. Elsewhere in a grove untouched by ardour dandelions bloom, and the breezes blow the seeds to lands of fantasy, but never all the seeds at once and never in a single breath.


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