Wayfaring Stranger

François Vieil De Born

I try to remember that joy is, if not stronger, at least deeper than pain. I don’t often do this, and I don’t often see or accept the finality of death and the absurd limitations of time and age. I most often don’t. Privileged moments, past ones, are anyways always here to play with, present seemingly for ever, as some familiar and cherished curls a lover would caress or would play with, or pull from a lover’s face . Later, Your lovely hair, coming undone, a motion that can only be yours and that I know, that I do recognize down in the crowd, My wrenching guts, And it’s not you.
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