A cloud is anchored by the mountain
che non c'è ancora whereby the morphe,
the outward look of the inner pith,
stunning, pleads for stunning eyes,
just as patience is what passion asks
if a marvel, wonder, beauty’s charm,
is to ever live on in one’s timeless art
instead of dying as a will-o'-the-wisp
for what is long and slow in coming by
is undoubtedly meant to plumb and gauge
how much or how little of the timeless
and of the immortal do we have in us
for it takes quite much as opposed to less
for giving birth to what even death can’t alter.
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