She smiles
at the fire
the young
foreigner
and she’ll
go and sit out
at the
table of stone
She’ll
write just for fun
in the
quiet farm
where the
fire once wept
tears of
wax
No fear
left
she’s going
to write that
the young
foreigner
whose identity’s
melt
Melt by the
fire
into tears
of wax
and then we
are not
what we
were
or we thought
But why
should I pretend
why should
I ever pretend
As long as
it lasts
fiat
voluntas tua
fiat
voluntas tua
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