Worldly riddles have slashed it down,
Puffy questions have knocked it cold,
With each breath, still my wounded heart makes a pilgrimage to my soul
Friday, 25 December 2015
A tiny scented-candle murmured:
"O lord make my flame few miles high
So that i can reach the sky
I wish to burn in fractions of seconds
The mole in the middle of the moon"
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