Your faces pulse on the mirrors of silent seas,
swancolor fire flutters faint on the wick of passing.
Hither doesn't reach the spite titter of the rude life.
Let the photo be yellow! Not the Touch with the Memory.
The death is harmony. Yet, it's worrying wishful.
It is worrier than all the overcarried but undeveloped words.
You were used to be. And you will be. The present? Aglowing dust...
And beyond grains you're swarming out of the stars.
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