Beyond the bare sycamore tree
the sky’s fire submits
to the deep sapphire of night.
The three colored points
I have been tracking
converge among the swarm of white fire-flies.
Sitting on the frozen mud
I hold them all in my hand
even though I am their passenger.
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To know fate,
that is man's true wanting.
But it is denied.
Who can say
Death can be drawn to them,
And they would embrace it?
But
Who can say,
to see love, beauty,
to take in the joys of the world,
The dusky sunsets,
blood spilt across the sky
one last time,
That it would not be worth it?
But,
To see all that,
and then what?
Nothing left, in this world.
Only worth, that kind of life,
When death is knocking,
stirring up dust.
It is best left, reminiced,
fate,
it is better left reminiced.
Protect us,
from this knowledge,
this fate of mine.
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