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Biography is either masked ball or epitaph. As you find me, so we are.

Friday, 2 March 2012

One hundred and sixteen

No service is required to wed the thoughts
Of those whose nature by the same aligns.
Love needs no reason, though with reason courts
Parallel shifts to her desire’s designs.
With sigh that carries to the final breath,
Weathered boat that bravely won’t be broken,
Keeping true course until her sinking death.
Mute rhapsodist, her value unspoken.
Though sands and hands the lineaments mark,
Most treasured features seasons can’t surpass.
She is the light that shines until last dark -
And does not flicker or soot up the glass.
        If in this sentiment I be mistook,
        I neither loved nor understood a book.

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