In the shimmer of autumn lights,
will earthly loves remember still
the rain’s chords plucked from sky—
as kith and kin of their own,
their own melodious pulse?
Will they retrace that thrilling tenderness
that lets one read, and know,
and join the syllable divine—
on each other’s skin—
a rhythm, a gleam of beatitude,
forgotten, yet suddenly restored
because slowed down—radiant,
the heart’s unconcealed deep pulse—
and at will—beyond time itself?
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