The Shadow
Shall I not speak of the shadows?
The very depths of the soul of the sun?
For there is surly no more beautiful thing
In the sunlight everything is glaringly clear
Hot with the bluntness of the rays
The harshness of its gaze
But in the shadows
Everything may be as it chooses
Rules may be bent
Or broken
And the shade the shadows bring is by far more comfortable
The sun does pierce the soul
While the shadows caresses it with gentle fingers
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