New poem: Reciprodada
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Reciprocada
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2022-06-18
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***
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I'm penning these words while you're dealing with a cold
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because I want something to from pain distract you
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while you lie in illness' hold.
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I need to this critical point know
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so that we will not argue
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when comes time for me to go,
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for you to arrive in death's cloak
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and beckon, "I finally get to bring my baby home."
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Our births disjointed, separated by eons
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and so many Veils that, stacked together,
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one couldn't see through to the other end of.
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But I've been reborn so many times, and you only once,
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and that with no breakage of continuity.
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I've passed through so many worlds, seen so many things,
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and even though most I remember not,
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when compared, you're practically a baby.
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I don't mean this as an insult. More the opposite:
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even the gods die eventually, and you've just begun to live.
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You told me once you wanted to spend your whole life with me,
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and another time together
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you couldn't wait to spend forever.
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That's why, Jett, before December I have got to ask:
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exactly how long do you want forever to last?
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Because I fear you'll inevitably grow bored
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of that cottage on the mountain and soar
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away, never to be seen again.
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I'm talking on the cosmic scale, where changes happen:
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new humans,
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new Sabladeans,
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are born and then die
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in the blink of an eye.
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And I don't mind
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the passage of time
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as long as I get to do it by your side,
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but it's fair to neither of us
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if I always stay the same
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and you succumb to old age and then to dust disintegrate.
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I would offer you immortality,
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but I would not condemn you to a life of being lonely
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as every friend,
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every companion,
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inevitably ages and passes away.
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I said it once before, and I insist it still rings true:
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there's no point in me making Sablade if I can't make it with you.
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I want, at the very end of time, to with you be buried
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at the absolute deepest root of our cursed Yewiffe.
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I'm taking this hourglass and placing it in your hands,
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and it's up to you to decide when comes the end of sands.
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***
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CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
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