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O praise the alchemy that doesn’t age;
only apples, golden if you please, can meet
that test (and those great mythological beasts,
but they
don’t look in mirrors anyway.)

No need to blame it on the moon
nor the constant greed for shining sun,
but I suspect it has a hand. Heed the tides –
(their rise and fall with many a sigh-)
or there will be no fish to fry.

Ruin the master, you ruin the house.
Sure, it is a natural rage, this suit in need
of pressing; thoughts turn on their own towards will,
to the undertaking
of both loss and making.

Still, while there is breath
time should not be wasted on  mourning prematurely. 
Proverbial the hope that sees creases as a proof of smiles,
and signs of gravity (the latest style)
no more than Einstein’s theory.

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