Being is not a fable, this sun
that moves us silently sets everything on fire.
Aren’t we innocent? Every dream
has its rough charm; here the rain
lost its fairies and white shadow,
here, on the shore where God is alone
like destiny, in the dusk of the wind.
Afternoons and fruits fly, bodies roll
through the sloping light, through the water.
We barely remember the fall
where death was filled with birds
and someone shouted heaven is impossible.
But we do not want to take
the leap, we refuse joy.
Being is not a fable, you live
the way you tell the tale, at the end of words.
Being is Not a Fable
like destiny, in the dusk of the wind
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