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You try to draw it out,

But nobody cares.

You point first to a cloud,

Then a bird and they wonder

Why your finger is outstretched.


You just want the moment

To know its worth, craving

Singing and colours

And the patterns

Of light or shadows over everything.


You are simple, really,

The kind of person who

Has only ever desired one

Easy, difficult task.

You cannot die before


The others, you think,

As who will write

Their elegies then.

You must keep going

Forever, though few


Turn towards you

As you made this pact

With the river, or a flower

You met in childhood, or

The night’s unsayable constellations.