The Origin of Art
How did I become this? you ask.
My dear, I was born with the gift.
I could not see it, you see
Shadows hide in the presence
Of light; once the light perished
Art sprouted from dark ashes,
Paper birds swam across tempests
In hopes of reaching your heart
Although the voyage, futile it was.
With time they will grow real wings,
Become the swans that inhabit
Foreign lakes where they can sing
And their sadness be understood.
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