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Frequently
one finds a little sunshine
In places where the forecast calls for rain,
Restoring the sweet sense that one is sane,
Suddenly bursting through the broken cloud line.
There is, when one is walking up an incline,
A source of strength no apathy can drain
Nor gradient preclude through pitch or pain,
Nestled in the core beneath one’s fault line:
Interior even to one’s soul,
Vaster than the panoply of night,
Embedded in the very act of being,
Resident in every thought and word.
Silent is the longing of the bowl,
A yearning absolute and infinite,
Revelation of eternal feeling
Yet dancing motionless to songs unheard. |
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