Poetry, that place between conversation and song, a world of magic, mysticism, reality, hope and fears, loves, hates and desires, a secret world that can be made public, a public world that can become a secret.
My Foolish Heart.
Rich, gold encrusted autumn
most precious of the seasons,
though death hangs as a mist
on yon not far off horizon;
within my heart still burns,
unashamed and unabated,
that fire of eternal spring
the mystery of life created.
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