The Fiddler’s Dream – Post Five-Hundred-Seventy-Two

Whimsical seams stroke the moonlight’s shadows,
Tearing away fanciful virtues of morality.
A revolving mirror; what goes up must come back with newborn eyes,
Filled with the knowledge of what you cannot see.
Seeing is wishing upon a reality,
Oh fill my eyes with dreams of stars,
Twinkling mysteries grant us each a wish.
Burn up with bright fantasies of now,
What is now is what we have,
What we have is now.

Au revoir,



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