Two sentiments too close for merry daylight
run parallel on cushions made of chance;
no prisoner will dare to take a stance
against the definition of the cellar.

The precious day is wasted to a blurry
of sempiternal calms and frozen ways,
stretching the resistance of the days
that should abominate of all but fury.

More night will soften pure this epicenter
and light the trembling wave of their emotions,
to palpitate along the dove ferocious
that menaces with peace their inner embers.

The End

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