The world is held in a single glance
Where a thousand moments slip into one,
Where a second is an endless trance
And the memory shines as clear as the sun.
What was merely modest and mundane
Has again claimed its native mystery:
A face mingled with love and with pain,
Which revels in its obscurity.
She’s almost as she was long ago,
But no joyous meeting, a cruel reprise.
And in the glow of streetlights through the snow,
The vacuous space of cold, vacant eyes.
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