17.11.11

I,

Until that night,
Ignorant
Of how Nature
Winds its hours out of sight.
Its rope,
Universal,
Pulls perversely
On the benign hum of time.
Softly,
It beckons a better day.

But if all the fine
Balance of Time
Rests this slight,
Is Ignorance yet
Out of sight?
The only light corners
Of our minds
The ones made light
For us.

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