Friday, May 3, 2013


The Magi have their gifts
The Saki her wine
The gypsy her tambourine
The nightingale her song
The rose her blush
So why must I
Walk about secretly sobbing
While I pour water
From my half-filled pitcher
Into imperfect receptacles
My gift is no nectar
No song sublime
Why does it hurt so much
To pour fresh water
And to hope
One day
It will turn into love

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