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Each moment is a word of glass; How shall we gaze like fiery stars Upon this gallery of breath? One says only what one is; There is no rostrum beyond death. Speak, then, of dancing particles Within the curvature of eyes, And with equations sow the seeds Upon which data crystallize; While in the forests lovers gleam Like whispers on a moonlit stream. Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use. Audio and Video Music: C Major Prelude.
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