What is real
Is only the soul
Of the world,
Like water rushing
Under an ancient
City.
Modern light
Is no match
For a flower
Pressed between
The pages
Of an old book,
Fresh and fragrant
Still after centuries.
We can all kiss
The pages of wisdom,
Learn how to
Become flowers
In the spine.
Throw my dust
In the water
On an August morning,
And the beauty
I have embodied
Will marry
The river
Of time.
-February 7 2024
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