Gazelles, not yet merged with breath,
hover in air that spells life—
on the cusp of being born, ushered in
by a gaze that has already found
its ringing gleam, eager to paint with light,
balanced and well-trimmed, with no pause
for wayward faults, no dulling notes,
through the pupil, from the iris’ bloom.
And even if nothing is said
in a softly released sound,
the flowing sigh itself already speaks,
assuredly knowing its way with touch,
rendering the game perplexed—
to be received with such eyes!
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