a poetry pure to the people is for its lovers:

if its suns shining gold upon the pinks of your skin 

and silvered moons glistening in your eyes wide

do not move you from your thought forward

you are not of them whatever red your blood

and what comes to you is only a sign

no matter if it creeps in in the night to you

or to you whispers its violent song in waves;

it mirrors for you and extends your wishes the more

and even if you plug the ears its pounding in the chests still, 

where they would drown in the light those loving and so beloved

and that the pens themselves would ache 

again and again for to read their story so aloud

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