The first true sign of love is anger:
What we need, we're likely to resent.
Each needing, needed, leaned on, leaning,
No longer free standing stone and white.
The wistful, tender fear of finity
Yields a darker shimmer of sublimity.
What we need, we're likely to resent.
Each needing, needed, leaned on, leaning,
No longer free standing stone and white.
The wistful, tender fear of finity
Yields a darker shimmer of sublimity.
Now indeed some sunny, delicate blight
Inaugurates a subterranean keening.
None can turn away and not be bent,
Inaugurates a subterranean keening.
None can turn away and not be bent,
The first true sign of love is anger:
What we need, we're likely to resent.
Each needing, needed, leaned on, leaning,
No longer free standing stone and white.
The wistful, tender fear of finity
Yields a darker shimmer of sublimity.
What we need, we're likely to resent.
Each needing, needed, leaned on, leaning,
No longer free standing stone and white.
The wistful, tender fear of finity
Yields a darker shimmer of sublimity.
Now indeed some sunny, delicate blight
Inaugurates a subterranean keening.
None can turn away and not be bent,
Each in each part self, part untouched stranger.
Each in each part self, part untouched stranger.(Taimur Ahmed)Inaugurates a subterranean keening.
None can turn away and not be bent,
Each in each part self, part untouched stranger.
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