A poet's dream,
when it acquires the pallor
of love,
is like a stale pond
with lotuses and creaks
and accidental ripples;
a pool that is a Universe
frozen in time.
If you touch it with a brush,
it will hurt.
This picture cannot contain
anything more.
A poet's dream,
when it gathers dust,
is like love
locked up in a heart
that is an old guitar;
the strings, in their stillness,
playing nothing.
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