There is nothing artificial
about your smile.
It springs from a silent hollow
where every tear is wrung,
every grievance wailed,
the last thick bitter drop
of anguish emptied to its pit.
You've heard the final
echo of receding thunder
from your old story.
Now you have no choice
but to breathe,
entangling a boundless
abstraction with threads
of embodied night.
The mystery of presence
is not for scholars.
It transcends the intellect
as golden dawn
outshines
last evening's candle.
This morning, friend,
there is no darkness
in your smile.
Joy is all
you have left.
Artist: 'Meditation' by William-Adolph Bougeureau
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