pobrecito

let it not ever be told that a love, when
then, forgotten would ever be lost;
what turns and turns and turns, turns on so,
slow to those who look; not to he who knows;
for the learning are earning their right to you,
and the blind never find what they seek in you;
those that fall prey, fell to the preying—
o gravity so grave, the sheep seek the wolf!
by naming, you are aiming at all you come across,
and all you call true comes straight, and to you!
every rose is a flower, but such a flower is a rose—
what’s one your hands is always won all alone:

so all the love you’ll ever hold
is all the love you’ll have told.

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