What of misfortune I talk about
Love and death are part of the same prime,
that inhabits the tribes of the world to route,
desolation and hunger,
to each’s locale,
and accord a living record,
to a solemn soul listening to life in umpteen types
Thus love engulfed the mind with sacred fire of knowledge,
foregoing the algae and to pick up the domains,
which time put up as its fancies to talk to the humans,
if perchance,
and I venture to listen to time to say,
nothing ever would exist but the dust of the universe
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