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Kassie Runyan

United States


“how do i get him to love me?”

asked the little girl

to her mother.

her mother,

who looked just like her…

but all grown up,

sat on the chair as she did each morn’

to put shimmer on her eyes.

the girl liked to watch the morning makeup

before clamboring up the lap

and waiting for her hair to be brushed

and to ask the latest question

that came to her mind.

last night, the little girl read

a book talking about love

and so she asked.

“how do i get him to love me?”

the mother smiled

not missing a beat in her

rhythmic brushing

of the tangled hair

on the little head in front of her.

“oh dear. the question is not

‘how do i get him to love me?’

but rather,

how do i find one who loves me

for who i really am.

once you find that, you will know love.”

their eyes met in the mirror.

one pair wise and shimmered

one pair full of dreams.

and they both sighed

with their own contentment.


Mel Haagman

United Kingdom

One day we’ll look back with regret,

The expectations that were set.

That age and progress had a link,

So, every year group worked in sync.  

And those who had ‘fallen behind,’

Must have a problem with their mind.

But some excel at faster rates, 

And other’s we just need to wait.

Not pile on pressure and stress,

To ensure that they make such progress. 

But give them the time they need to bloom,

Let belief and love fill the room. 

We’ll build resilience, patience and more,

And have the time for strong rapport. 

Because it’s not just what they know,

It’s how they act that makes them grow. 

Plants have different conditions to survive, 

And so do children to allow them to thrive. 

Let’s hope that change is increasingly near,

So to damaging goals we don’t have to adhere.



Alwyn Gornall

United Kingdom


Walk through the entrance

and wherever you go you

will walk in his footsteps.

Look at a plant, shrub, or tree

and he will have planted it,

staked it, pruned it, and nurtured it.

Talk to a garden volunteer and

he will have recruited them,

encouraged them and supported them.

Admire the garden’s features

and he will have created a project

for them and raised money for them.

In this place you will find peace,

relaxation and refreshment. Walk

in his footsteps and enjoy his legacy.



James Croal Jackson

Pennsylvania, United States


The bowtie light switch has a mustache.

What does that say about me? I’ve spent

too much time seeing whatever I want

in office objects. Tape gun forklift. 

Soap giraffe. All I want is to love

what I have however diminutive

the love, however diminutive

the day stretches out in consuming

all other days. My endless

imagination boards me

on its paper airplane,

the rock slungshot the first 

time I read a book and never

arrived at my destination.



Bonnie Demerjian

Alaska, United States


My radio played Ave Verum Corpus as I hiked. Then, darting through the trees, two ravens in pursuit, their true, their massive bodies driven by those stern and feathered blades. All bodies – the birds, the forest, mine -- fused. It was over in a flash, of course, that charged vision -- cosmos above my head, under my feet -- electrifying the forest, and gone, a foretaste, say the yearning lyrics, of the coming banquet. But this was feast enough.



Shampa Saha


the trembling warmth 

that shivered my heart from beneath

the lips like rosey petals

that touched my untouched lips

the sign that was kept on my eyes 

indelible immortal eternal forever

that was in favour of all the lovers

who bade their partner goodbye

and never came to touch

and loiter the whole world to search

for him or her

my first kiss that was the last one

i lost everything and you everly won.


Woman In Red With Head

(A poem about the painting The Feast Of Herod by Rubens)

Adele Evershed

Connecticut, United States

She danced and was adored

tiny touches make all the difference white highlights horror while yellow draws the eye down and under the table a shadowy afterthought drawn by the blood 

a little finger cocked as she pierces the tongue a subtle sort of violence seen in the burning reflections of lobsters and bread

and little volcanoes erupt in shame or anger or just curiosity and always in the margins on the edge of the canvas a black servant carrying a brimming bowl

there is a strange fascination—a test of sorts—in an unreliable man

so you look

but you must choose to see



Judge Santiago Burdon

Costa Rica

I'm sitting here thinking about my folks

It feels like years since I've been home

I've got a feeling like I'm homesick

But it's something more

My thoughts are running wild 

In this warm desert air

Imagining that I'm there

I hear those old dogs barking 

As I walk up the road

It's sad because I never seem to find the time

To even write them  a couple of lines

It's always phone calls home 

For the Holidays

When I was young, they found time for me

They worked so hard to raise a family

Now all the kids have grown

And they've grown old

Nothing more to show except for growing old

Somehow it doesn't seem right

My parents raised me then almost overnight

I heard the wind call my name

I was gone

Now I wonder what they get in return 

For all the years of love and concern

I guess the person I've become is their only reward

Whenever I was down on my luck

My ole man he'd slip me a couple of bucks

And never made me feel like any less of a man

Now I've found it's not money or gifts they give

I've been a taker all these years I've lived

I never realized the true worth of their lives

The gift they give comes from their souls deep inside

That's something you can't buy

I've put so many miles between me and them 

It's gotten so easy to pretend

There's no debt owed

I've got a life of my own

After all these years I hope it's not too late

To let them know I'm proud of my name

And a chance to thank them 

For everything they've done

Now I'm haunted by memories 

Of the way things used to be

I can hear them both calling me home

Please take me back to my younger days

I was cheated by yesterday

I was never told 

I'd have to watch them grow old

I didn't know they'd get so old

When did they grow so old

Growing old

I'm sitting here thinking about my folks



Ann Chinnis

United States

My Mother’s manners are an apology for her Ozark roots; thank you notes nibbed

 on monogrammed cards, swift and gift specific, serious as a Vanderbilt gilding

her audience, but home-spun too, penning barefoot  as she yarns you about her 

one room school, windows rattling from the train to St Louie, the kids waving

like crazy to a hazy face, counting boxcars. Her manners are a ruse. She never says

 stupid unless delivered as a catechism; Stupid is as stupid does, each time

you back into the same mailbox. My mother’s manners are as steadfast as her

 Aqua-Net hair, more resolute than her starched sheets. Even when you’re

grown, move from home, she will lay your coat on her bed with the guests’, after

 sherry send you off with the rest saying, Don’t be a stranger. They are a lasso

of truth; how she hands you punch in a crystal cup, lulls you into spilling 

your guts. What do you think of your father’s  new wife?  My Mother’s manners

are a bribe; a German Chocolate cake baked from scratch, coconut and fingertip 

grated into icing, delivered in my Pinto to Lenten Luncheons  when she

campaigned for Senior Warden. Her manners are a Trojan horse sporting

 a periwinkle beret down K Street to Vestry meeting, me in red Keds, 

us scheming  to upend the church’s creeds on ordaining women 

priests. They are a sucker punch in black leather gloves from October

through March, not one day later, pinching my arm when I half-kneel in church. Before

     she takes the takes the dais she puts herself down Good-Old-Wishy-Washy-Mom

and you think she’s eating from the palm of everyone’s hand. She’s a battering ram, clears

     her throat, raps her gavel: the Distinguished Deputy from Delaware

is Out of Order. Please sit down. Her manners are trotlines set for the vote with silver 

butter press on the left,  salt cellar, right: her bait, pounds of shrimp Thermador (lemon

removes the stench on your hands) swallowed hook, line and dogma by her guests.

     My mother’s manners are a psalm, a call to action. I end her battle hymn

in benediction. The last train from St. Louie echoes up the tracks.  A  distant whistle. 

Three-short. One- long.         Unanswered calls.



Helen Cox

United Kingdom

Let them whisper

that you’re too old for me

and that I’m just a supple mid-life crisis.

They don’t know how long you’ve thirsted

to taste the ocean between my thighs

or how unapologetically we fill each other’s negative space.

They don’t know that I fetishize your hands:

two firm miracles, the hands of Eros sculpting me

into an intrepid comet, hurtling

through your most obscene darkness. They don’t know

how tenderly you reached inside my chest

when we first met, pulling out a mottled blue

song thrush egg. Or how many eons you waited for my heart

to peck


                    peck its way out, hatching

the indecently virtuous woman who featured in all the centrefolds

you hid from your wife. They don’t know you have the stamina to fly me to Jupiter

but instead taught me to spread my own wings so I could soar on my terms.

So darling, let them whisper. I promise we’ll never hear them

from this high up.



Maid Čorbić

Bosnia and Herzegovina


The river of love for me is an inexhaustible paradise

you are the source of my life and sincere happiness

I can't be the same man without you   

because every day I dream that we are still together

although perhaps worship is not a one-way street

because I believe I may have become a sinful man

because of what I said to you a long time ago

and I know that maybe time is not on my side

but I believe that behind every impartial trouble

he must find a source of continuous happiness

to realize that we may be compact

but still inconsistent as in the old days

where that little attention was sincerely loved and appreciated

I really gave my best

you never wanted to see it with those eyes of love

which are an impartial walk on slippery ground

the strength of my soul in the cold winter days

it made me always push myself

because who cares how I feel today

and I just want you to be a happy person

i know i'm not the perfect guy in the world

but I also believe there is some miracle

which can save me from all trouble

which I set for myself in the time of indicators

and it is understandable that perhaps worshiping you is a sin

but I can't do it any other way

love makes me be what I am not

considering you as something more than a friendship

and how to get on with my life

because without you I do not see the meaning of my existence

you are an angel and a devil at the same time

when I look away; my matter is dying out

the brain cell no longer exists

she is dead because of the terrible terror over my emotions

adoration is just synonymous with my concealment of the condition

where the mind wants to play with me so skillfully

what a life I deserve after all again

because love made me do something bad

while dreaming, I still imagine you in all this

what a period of my life I would be without you if I didn't know

and I am grateful no matter the sad moments

that I always have you whenever needed

for that is the meaning of sincere love

to have someone for everyone, to love carefree

while I observe worship in all directions!



Liz Thompson

Colorado, United States


Yet I know my name is not the

last on your mind when you 

drift into a land unexplored


My eyes are not the ones you 

think of when you are alone,

my hands you are not

itching to grasp or longing to touch


Yet I know you would rather

be lonely than be alone with me

You would rather hate everything

than to love the piece of my heart

I gave you and asked you to watch


Yet I know mine is a brokenness

you never try to understand

Your hands are strong enough to hold

a thousand hurts, but you do not listen

to the simple cry of my breaking heart

asking you to hold me close


Yet I know I am not loved



Keabetswe Qobolo


at least we made memories

at least our friendship wasn't dark and dull

at least we smiled at each other for once,

and got a chance to hold hands 

we enjoyed each other's company 

it was like we were made for each other from the sands 


we got a chance to tell each other we're pretty

got a chance to see each others' eyes

but now we're cold as ice

smell each other's scent from miles 

but now all i can smell is sadness and tears

your voice running through my head

at least we made memories 

we told each other stories 

you opened your chest to me 

because you had trust in me 

but now... 

i don't think it still exists anymore 

you can't even stand in front of me, 

for even a minute 

it's more like our love is fading away

wait no! it is fading away

but at least we made memories... 



Karuna Mistry

United Kingdom


Blue is the colour

The colour I am chasing


Blue is the beauty

The hue of tranquility


Blue is the ocean, into the depths

Blue is the sky, into the night


Blue is the planet, enriched with life

Blue is the sea, rivers, rain and sky


But blue is the colour

Of non-imitation


Natural world seldom maketh

A true incarnation


Peacock feather and butterfly wing

Their blues just tricks of reflection


Yes, blue is the colour

The colour I am searching


History of man steeped

In pursuit of blue


Azure, its exotic name

Captured to paint the sky


Blue light enters in short wavelength

Rayleigh Scattering from solar radiation

True blue lies beyond

In the expanse of creation


Looking further is blue

To the Earth and heavens


Blue is the question

Blue is the answer


Indeed, blue is the clue

The colour I am searching for is You


​Purport: This poem describes the search for blueness, which is rare in the biological and natural world – a peacock feather and the famous blue butterflies do not actually have blue pigment but instead rely on trickery of the light. This search for blue is ultimately observed in distant areas of creation (namely the sea, sky and stars). 



Nolo Segundo

United States

When my wife flew halfway round the world 

to see her father in Asia,

I thought, well, only for two weeks -- 

piece of cake. 

Then something strange happened-- 

the house got twice as big,

and felt empty, oh, so empty, 

as though abandoned by life….

Then time itself slowed, sooo slow 

that days passed leaden, like 

boring speeches that went on and on, 

sooo slow I could hear 

old man Time dragging his feet 

and I wanted to scream….

I hadn’t realized-- after 40 years 

she is a part of me, not, repeat,

not figuratively, not a metaphor, 

but a part of me,  if not body,

then certainly soul….

And when she returned, 

after 15 hours in the belly of a big bird,

my house shrunk back to its normal size, 

and old man Time began

marching briskly, and my soul? 

My soul was whole once again….      



Judy DeCroce

New York, United States

a night ago…

half real-but not

a sip into a life

felt right to my right

a friendship stitched across

this dream settling into my life     

a woman

older on the other side of living

she in late autumn    me nearer spring

her habits familiar    her face not

there was nourishment of spirit

a persistence of compassion that

closes down dying

making me stronger going on.

she a mother, a grandmother, 

treasured mentor for one dream

This morning, I miss her -really miss her.

I told her I loved her 100.



Mike Ball

United States

If you need or if it were to amuse you

to hear paeans of your glories, just nod

Nod to me and I can and shall sing

praises of your beauty, of your wit,

of your softest kiss, heaven’s breath

of the orange blossom cent of your skin…

We have both worked with your once

and inexplicably former, lovers.

I adore you and would quickly say so.

Were it not for lives before we met,

I would pull you in with my tractor beam

and never release you.

I cannot understand how one or any one

of your lovers let you get away.

In beauty and wit, in logic and

kindness, no other woman compares.

Did they imagine a better offering?

Square pacing with you around the base

of Kitson’s The Hiker, ever closer

yet never quite pressed together,

while the bronze soldier guards us.

You love being loved yet stand back

I would rush forward yet I dare not

What a pair we are and how I am left

singing of you and to you, untouching.



Genevieve Ray



Set to an angle,

a worldwide awning,

something small,

you are sharing,

a world into your window.

Not sure which of us,

is meant to be Rapunzel.

Steady the contact cables,

a way to climb into,

something else entirely.

Quietly talking,

in between wall cracks.

Sighing behind curtain rails.

Borne of a digital age,

Something so much older than that.


In the morning haze,

we might be falling,

into some sort of adoration.

Started by a windowpane.

The reflection of a possible history.



Peter Mladinic

United States

R.S. Thomas thought television was from

the devil. I can see him at a lectern

in a clapboard church in Wales, railing

at a small congregation not to trifle 

with automatic washers and machine-

driven plows.  They’re from the devil!

Yet R.S. Thomas’ poems were questions.

In “In Church” he asks Is this where God

hides from my seeking?  In church.

I look at the tiers of stone steps, wide

and light. Behind thick wood doors

the vestibule with a baptismal font.

I enter the church proper. Right above

me, the choir loft, and to my right a fount

of holy water. A vast sea of wood pews.

Up front, on both sides' confessionals

with purple velour curtains. Stained glass

depictions of lambs, men in robes, halos.

To the left and right shrines of the Blessed

Virgin. Rows of candles. An altar rail, 

more steps, an altar and above it the thick

wood crucifix, Christ crowned in thorns, 

a swaddling cloth covers his nakedness.

his palms bloodstained; his eyes look up

toward heaven, I suppose. I liked the smell

of incense from the chalice the priest 

used for funerals and mass on holy days.

Isn’t everyday holy, every virgin blessed?

Two little children kneel in a pew, the church

big and dark, nothing bad happens here.

On a Saturday afternoon a short man 

with a bald spot in the crown of his head

parts the velour curtain.  The priest pulls

back a slat. The man sees, behind a screen,

a shadow of the priest’s face.  Bless me..

He confesses to the priest his sins.

An early Wednesday morning two Sisters

of Charity, in long black gowns, their faces 

framed in white squared boarders, so not

even one strand of hair is showing, kneel

in a pew.  Sister John, whose face is long

and thin, with a Roman nose, puts her hand

over Sister Gerard’s. Both are young. 

Sister Gerard, her chin stubbled with acne,

kisses Sister John’s long smooth hand.

They are the only ones there, hanging 

from the waists of both nuns, long strings

of black beads, with small silver crosses,

Christ on the Cross, who, like the Christ

above the altar, sees everything. Is this

the place where God hides?  Is He there

behind the confessional’s screen. What are

your sins? Or around a vestibule corner,

or in the halo of the bearded brown robe,

St. Francis with a lamb on his shoulder?

His eyes look upward. Is this the place

where I hide from God? In church. One

of those two children, the boy Clifford,

sobbed when Sister Margaret asked him

Where is your father?  My father’s dead.

That wasn’t in church. Church is where God

hides, maybe up in the choir loft. I wish

I were like R.S. Thomas, pure poetry.



John Muro

Connecticut, United States

Years removed from when you

first entered my life and wanting

to somehow make things stop,

what I remember are the many

times your embrace served as a

source of comfort, fevered with

mercy and grace and a willingness

to always give without restraint,

and how, later on, I came to recognize

how much of you took hold in my

wife – the surprise being it remained

unalloyed and endless, and wanting

such tender bearing to live on, we

gave our only daughter your name.



Richa Sharma



No memory from that far has come this far

just the one, of touching you first time,

of feeling that tender, downy scalp,

your translucent petal skin

flushed bright at birth

lit angry, rosy pink

Little do I carry from that forgettable past

just snippets of your roundish face,

despite my listless fugue,

the weak whimpering,

gurgling sounds,

asking for me

As your limbs grew firm and held the earth

I held you inside my frightened heart,

every day, I wish you knew

what insane fear it was

a little funny as well

looking back

And now you are a somewhat taller than me

I hold your face and pull it down to me

As you leave for school mornings

Teenaged, teethy, smile

once again etched, baby,

a forever memory



Melanie Reitzel

California, United States


Flies trapped in the tent 

    and Gladys Love's got a certain dampness about her face and neck    

      waiting for what that bullhorn out the window promised:

                  7:30   Please  

    she liked that: Please

                    Come for the Fire and the Holy Ghost     

It's late enough for crickets    

    her daddy’d told her long ago that was the sound of stars twinkling.

    She's almost sorry for the truth. But no quiet here, she's heard.

Me and my boy, she turns to say — we drove all the way from—

Here he come ma'am here he come, Look: Brother Claude, here he come

Whoooowheeeeee he's a big man. 

    She wonders if she was heard—hopes imagining's not a sin.

    Swatting away the flies, she remembers she was told: 

    Twelve, he was twelve when he began.


Standing up there before them all—white suit, hat pushed back.

    Tooth, is that gold? Hard to see. Yes, I caught that glint: I bet real gold 

                                    Reitzel / Gladys / 2

                  Let's have a good time  Brother Claude shouts,

                    a preacher like he means it. Praise God we're alive

And here come the moon despite the scrim of canvas between them.  

    The moon as if a blessing, and she brings up her fan, listens to the preacher     fevering up his pitch on Moses wanting greener pastures for his sheep.       

Who doesn't want that for loved ones—her hand on her shy boy's shoulder


                    Now Moses got to look around him 

                    and kinda got scared


been scared— that first twin boy coming out all still, 

                                                                            and staying still with nary a breath 

                     and then this one.  She fingers his hair but he's just listening—

                                             This one come out right after— just waiting to sing.

  Thank the Lord. Moses he's sees there was a fire                          and he hear the Lord begin to speak 

Nothing to be done for it, Claude's doctor said Tuberculosis in that child. 

    He's going to die. 

    But the family gathered 'round and prayed  

                    I am not going to die 

                    that boy sat up and declared  

                    I am not going to die


Now that boy all grown. Listen to him     

                    Take your shoes off  Moses why this is holy ground                         You take that sky blue devil he hated Salvation—                         Something the world couldn't give to me  and the                         world can't take it

                    I am a man without sin today and the Lord to thank                         for it

                    Praise Jesus Children come gather come gather                         once more

                    Let's sing 

                    Make this old house shake

                                      Let's sing

Strumming the guitar as if he needed it to breathe.                

    His voice a holy rasp against the wood of sin


                I'm crying holy unto the Lord. Holy, Holy unto the Lord

Clapping, everybody clapping

    Off the beat—we Pentecostals like it off the beat 


                    Ain't no grave 

                    Ain’t no grave can hold my body down

  In the spaces, between the beat

    where no one expects the heat 

                              They say when he picked up     his guitar and hit a key 

it was like the heavens would just open up

And Gladys Love and her boy 

soon forget the earth. 



Antoni Ooto

New York, United States

Oh, how this boy would run.

The smell of Grandma’s kitchen—

her Italian cooking always tracked

an invitation and a welcome.

I knew which house was mine.


One afternoon, mid-week

rushing in,

grandpa said she was dead.

How could that be?

She was Grandma!

She was always here.

For me, at 10, death was unreal,

where every room still held her sound.

And over time, nothing was the same;

as her spirit moved on.

For Giovannina Bellucci DeCroce



Sangita Kalarickal

United States

Amidst bejeweled brilliance

A glance may lead to love

And seen through fairy dust

a moment may just lead to life

Yet the vines, sunbeams, flowers

Are mere fragrant, gilded cages

stretching into eternity built

by sly, bewitching mages.

As, in love’s bosom dwells

the depth of beauty 

and compassion that I seek.

In blankets of stars

and not in sheafs of books

much wisdom I see.

In my heart, I finally find

the meaning I roamed 

here and thither for. 

And with a jolt I 


all that's in my heart

is you.



Marion Price

United Kingdom


Summer shall marry her children

To the fine Autumn King

And adored they shall be

By the fine blowing winds

Dressed in magic land colours

In couplettes of free

All these jewelly gifts

That now rain down on me

So that I too now feel

So desired to sing

And rejoice evermore

Summer ere married Spring



Sarfraz Ahmed

United Kingdom

Clustered hearts,

Bound by time,

Hold hands,

Touch the sublime,

Touch the void,

Memorable moments,

Blossoms that resonate in full bloom,

Each tender moment fills the room,

Like tulips in spring,

Clustered hearts full of emotion,

A vessel heart full of devotion.



LaVan Robinson

United States


There is a powerful connection between our existence and the spiritual awakening of the soul. In its rawness of fluidity, love like a river into our countenance flows. The abundance of stimulating and riveting imagery of our validity is a great poetic expression of love in its infancy. With proper care and detail to attention to its success, maturity and fullness of its strength and purpose. Daily, together, we will jointly find ways to express our devotion.



Pratibha Savani

United Kingdom

My love for you is....
      Without limits
        Without thoughts

My love for you is....
   So pure
                 So powerful
       It's extraordinary

My love for you is....
                So generous
  It's spectacular

My love for you....
           Brings laughter
             So natural
        So complete
                 It's perfect
             My beautiful baby..... 



Julie A. Dickson

New Hampshire, United States


So many heart and flowers,

enough candy to make a person sick;

reading sappy cards by the hour

until I decided to write my own quip.


How might I say that I love you,

in a tasteful, yet loving way,

sans Pepto-Bismol pink in view

that tends to cover the day?


No cupid’s arrow shot in the air,

a dozen roses? I could go broke!

Recite mushy verses until I despair,

another chocolate, I might choke!


I’m left with a simple I love you;

in my eyes you’ll always my mine.

The love we share always feels so new

and you’re my favorite Valentine.



Peuo Tuy

United States

From sunrise to sunset

you breast fed me in the rice field

Under our bamboo-stilt home,

laying nested in your arms in our handmade hammock

you lulled me to sleep singing songs of beauty

You sat under our tamarind tree in your lotus sarong

on your hands and knees

making porridge soup



Ken Gosse

United States


Definition: Aleatory refers to an agreement where profit or loss depend upon uncertain events, such as with an insurance contract. It is also used to describe luck, particularly bad luck.

A famous bullfighter of yore

took a chance on a local amor,

but Carmen, though charmin’,

was always alarmin’

her aleatoryadore.



(after the Rolling Stones, Standing in the Shadows)

to Elaine, a double fibonacci*

Neal Whitman

United States




to share joys

and even sorrows?

We live in both light and shadows.



the room.

Soothing sounds

from her silver flute

bring peace and make our space sacred.


* A fibonacci poem is based on the numerical sequence computed by Italian mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci in which the first two numbers are 0 and 1. Each subsequent number is the sum of the previous two. This form uses those numbers for syllable count per line; ergo,  1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, ad infinitum. Think of the 0 as the pause before starting to read the poem.



Lakshman Bulusu

United States

If love were words, I would ink them here

A guerdon in words for your love, my dear

Faithful and candid in its content manifold

As classic as that for ages has been told 

Love, the four letters glow on the white

Encompass your love in all its height

Sometimes golden, sometime a bolder hue

Unfold the color of the beauty that is you

As I look at them blinking each time

It is as if your winks in their prime

Beckoning me to their looks, to behold--

Those eyes of yours and reach your fold

Your song, a melody it rings in my heart sublime

As timeless and full as an ageless rhyme

The song immortal, your love the same

I shall woo thee to ever-enduring fame

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