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Jun 2021
I was a worm and I closed in on myself.
In the grave that I was I forged my wings.
Love called me, raised me to his grace.
He scorched my hermit face.
Your love was a light, which urged me to flight.
It was a burning, sharp light.
It was a star to crash my shadow.
It was a sliver of light, it was a flame.
I was dazzled in my crypt: I entered your halo,
I put my verse on the edge of your sword,
I put myself in your center: it was of fire:
I used to settle in the fire house.
In the fire
I saw myself a worm, a butterfly, a passion, a spark with wings ...
I did not know if I was burning
nor if it was all the light your flare.
I haven't seen myself since.
I have not come to myself. I am so two
that I get confused: when you call me I call you,
when you call me you flare your own flank.
Your love was of light: it is a sore, a wounded sun,
an autophagous fire in my bed.
I have consumed myself in you, in you it has been consumed
my volatile course towards nothingness.
Rayénari Das
Written by
Rayénari Das  San Miguel de Allende
(San Miguel de Allende)   
167
   Brett
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