In our darkness we see most clearly.

Not a hymn to your multitude or brilliance.

No, there are poets to sing those songs.
Me? I am yet a mortal, condemned to wander —
Beneath what gifts you have bestowed.
To wander this mortal rock yet know
That there are yet gifts.

For example, a hint maybe:
That the night breathes a breath the day does not know.

And that, perhaps, is my secret:
That breath has been whispered to Rilke and Lorca.

~ by Benji on 3 October 2014.

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