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  • My crying cellos, burn inside me now in ways that only young children could possibly know
    how to explain.
    It would be listening to tears from ghosts at last night's night
    how the water dripped over the rocks in the gardens of death
    the lights , shadows all bowing to the poems of the bell

    I am kneeling while I write this torment
    the blame so remote now..
    slipping along with a leaf following the storm
    that left me with only obsessions which alluded to knowledge,
    of snow covered embraces in open letters to my father

    I think now that the suffering of living with regret
    may be equal to living without promise
    it may be that for each of us, this is a equal living reality
    yet, we were both the fools
    since there will be no remaking of the masks which made us strangers.

    I make my last flute now. Tonight
    In the blazing refllection of the moons light
    In the quiet rock
    In chains akin to stone
    in the fully binding acceptance that struggles are Natures prison, we unwitingly chose
    please allow a moment of innocent food
    please , honor in some small way the collected tears
    when the ocean called us nearer

    hop

    thinking of my father, who is ........

    who is in the space behind the leaves I once told you of.
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