Sol

How lucky we are

But when summertime comes
and all the heat prolongs

Here we are at death’s door,
nearly knocking for cold and rain

Here we are at the gates of Hell,
nearly shouting for wind and water

Here we are kneeling at the temple,
nearly crying for flood and tide

The endless thought of it not ending,
The ceaseless feeling of the eternal,
The unending sense of the perpetual,

The sun

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