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Must you die a little

every time that you create?

Why is yearning so brittle?

Why does my world still hate?

Can you understand the reticules of time?

The shades and hues and melon dews

of earth and sky and crime?

The messengers of evil,

do they also die at dawn?

Will everything be peaceful

once my infant son is grown?

And what about you, the poet,

Thou usurper of the throne:

will you help us seek the lovely,

the manifold, the gone?

I have no answers for my children,

I am but pen and ink and tear;

the shadows and the constants

affect those I hold too near.

I only wish to see, before it too disappears,

that which is born but not yet created;

that which lives alone in fear.


From "You, Who Creates" by Daniel Viragh.

All rights reserved.


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