Addressed to Himself

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How hard I have made life for you, Cirilo,

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Who wrestle with words to free my mind;
Your various battles, you do not know,

Poise at me the same buckle, the same wind
That eagles in anger hotly ride on.
Yet like buckles you never break, though blind

At times you pine and pine for beauty gone –
Ah, never take the same courage, mon ami,
Wisdom and the past are never one.

But learn to distrust language that we
In constant dreams deem the only fact,
Kill it in seduction or heraldry

So eagle-like you may invent your act;
Then think you walk in a world of thrall,
Where Beauty walks too but does not look back,

Crossing the foggy fjords of the skull.

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