***
Time became
a lump in the throat,
a tower,
a skyscraper
that grows
and breaks through
the unlived
life,
through the madness
of anxiety
with the monotonous
constancy
of quietly aching
hopes,
where the postscript
of waiting
hides the tears
of parting
in the bloodless
dew.
Sky — who are you?
An impartial
observer,
or a victim
of reflection,
of death-stained days,
crosshatched
by war?
Our nights —
a dungeon,
but we
step into the light
and in the arms
of dawn
we shelter
the pain
of our hearts.
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