Worshipping Lali

Where naught is still

Oh! to speak of worlds hidden in magic sight
Lost between a whisper and a sigh
Up in fiery wings a phoenix takes flight
Behind the appearance of a bird’s morning cry
There is more than what meets the eye
There are new suns in the wounded why
Would that the dreamer climb lowlier till
She arrives into the throbbing places where naught is still


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Falling might very well be flying – without the tyranny of coordinates.