The World Above
Oh when I speak of love,
I am a wandering kite made of mist,
enveloped by murk;
as I speak to my love,
I do not write to a lover
Not even to someone who saves
a palm of promises and keeps
a memory of my ghost in his pocket
This, a feeble paper of poetry
is again a whisper from the underground
But down here the view is still precious;
my love lives on the grandest mountain-
for that I see beyond these stone walls
and never forget to rise
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