Yet there is always its binding blinding
Tugging us away each moment
When we want to be amongst
At most, what i could do is wait
Wishing that time is kind to my yearning
Of a momentary conversation, to chance upon
When you and I weave us into it's threads
It seems another interval has come forth
Between our desire to speak, or hear
So at best is to bid, while in wait
For another chance to melt into words
The ink of words, yours, and of ones to you
Is as fresh as the first star that shone bright
So is the fragrant anticipation of my desire
That rises, arousing my mind and ears
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