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It
is you, not the colored sparks of fireworks, who lighten my view at the
night of this hot Fourth of July. First in grasses, then in midair, then on
the top of bushes, and then between tree trunks...
While my eye, wide open, chases your light, my heart takes off with you on
an exhilarating flight. If music is a language, your dance is language too.
I want to become a child again, and learn to dance like you.
(I don't know why the
river appears unbearably static today, like an old man. Baby geese, many of
them, seem to have suddenly grown into awkward adolescents with bodies
swollen but wings undeveloped.)
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