it is enough for me, the inconstant occasion
where you may mistake me for some passer by
or recognize to recognize me
as a thing outstanding to your indifferent eye
it is enough for me that we are existing
on this very same frame, speaking a letter
or none at all, and between lies and love
to be misunderstood by you, as something better
than whatI am. Thus we go on revolving
through unresolved love, never to be free
from perpetual longing, till the heart
suggests in silence what is not enough for me
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