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Memory

observando:

I

Clear water; like the salt of childhood tears,
the assault on the sun by the whiteness of women’s bodies;
the silk of banners, in masses and of pure lilies,
under the walls a maid once defended;

the play of angels;—no…the golden current on its way,
moves its arms, black, and heavy, and above all cool, with grass. She
dark, before the blue Sky as a canopy, calls up
for curtains the shadow of the hill and the arch.

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Often, it’s not about becoming a new person, but becoming the person you were meant to be, and already are, but don’t know how to be.

- Heath L. Buckmaster (via observando)

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