If the day is ripe, the swathes should be high and narrow,
And the blades respiring of green love and dewy state.
If the language pierces acutely through the hidden pores,
The wound should give off a lunar red around the edges.
If the shadow illumes the cinders of the wilting, even flint,
I gravitate around the sighs of you lingering on my skin-
I tell you, such story will follow you, straight into the heart.

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