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A shooting star grazes the orange rust aura of a bright lit skyline
Towering immobiles stretched to the heavens
Reaching vehement for babols infamous legend
Infinite distance impresses to stand between gazer and gazed
A golden apple gated by gradients of anecdotes
A catalog of captured instances
We lift the dwarf from our shoulders
To ascend our highest peak
A moment becoming the afterburn of atmospheric particles leading impressions into awe struck observers
Cementing emblematic entropy to an event horizon hanging like a halo
over cradled civilization.
“You should read Spanish,” he said. “It is a noble tongue. It has not the mellifluousness of Italian, Italian is the language of tenors and organ-grinders, but it has grandeur: it does not ripple like a brook in a garden, but it surges tumultuous like a mighty river in flood.”
1915, W.S. Maugham, “Of Human Bondage”
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