Beauty surrounded us
with disharmony, so that we could bear witness.
We were old enough to know, yet young enough to admit.
We were allowed by ourselves to move freely,
out of the open wind of suffering,
wind of spring that carried in it
all the petals time had taught to be like glass,
and that time had perhaps taught us that we could not bear.
We are impossibilities, inevitable to becoming,
constantly fatalist – and we reach our ends by crossing them,
only afterwards admitting we are learning how to pray.
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