butterfly wing

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

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Submitted: July 16, 2016

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Submitted: July 16, 2016



A brother.



Michelangeli had been playing it for some time, here next to me, but I had not noticed.
All of a sudden I heard it. The Sonata K 27 in B Minor.

It was a summer morning, not far from noon.
Clouds began going down, meekly agleam, festively greeting each other, from the sky to the ground.
It became warm. Now even from the Sun caresses where coming, soft.
Warmth that melts with its caress it was. The liquefactive caresses.

I made the exciting finding that the elements can happen to reveal a secret of theirs to a particle of dust.


Image: An other particle of dust, sister Triangle Galaxy. Offspring of a particle of dust, the Universe. I have heard them say particles of dust may be infinite in number. I have heard them think over what numbers are, what "infinite"  is, what "is" is: not much as of late. They have turned to more comfortable questions, as of late. "Freedom", "no God", and many other names they have come to use as synonyms for comfort and ease.


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