Every day and every hour
I power myself
Without an idea in my mind
Numbness engaged over me
No enduring motive other than
The insatiable desire to write
No faithful worthwhile story
Just trite to rhyme up tight
What then of Neruda
Of seeing beauty in her eyes
What then to confuse me
In suspense always lays surprise
With the silent wind
My wavy hair blows
The trees whisper
I love you, yes I do
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