When we’re lost in baffling meta-languages
All Greeks and all Mughals,
Battles that are never lost or won.
Hubris that inflate
Our seemingly opposites.
Children are born with passions, not with desires
It is in that tantalizing sobriety that we rise.
Flocks come home, overdue for a return.
These are but rituals of the passage.
The passage that you and I walked through
As if it was yesterday.
It is in yesterday’s shadows all our todays reside.
Flocks come home, still.
Still, overdue for the return.
Fiddling on emotions
Vacuums are transfixed.
When you my love
Like the end of a tragedy leave.
It’s called exeunt.
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