119

I transit between the crystalline flow

of the unheard fountain that rests beneath
the windowpane watch of my weary woe,
and the air, transparent like a clear wreath:
There is dew in the haze, and my eye dies;
cries, I mean, cries out from inside my dreams
the mysterious voice of truths and lies
that lies in the void between shouts and screams:
The vacillation is light; the air sounds
like a seashell's shout across the desert
as oceanic oasis, redounds
off the winding wall that, writhing and hurt,
parries toward sandy stones that steel this tower
the note that trickles into my ear, sour. 
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