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When all that’s left
are framed memories
on the wall,
the soul seeks joy
in saddest places.
There’s bliss in chasing
the scent of wild wind
and rain along deserted paths,
past the smiles of peasants
outside their weary huts.

This journey never may end.
Yet there’s no returning
to where candles
stand dead in the dark.
Their fickle flicker
offers no solace
in that temple
of forgotten prayers,
a haven of pains
love paid homage to.

Find me there
where the echo
of sacred vows remains,
where your touch
shaped my being,
where the leaves rustled
to the music of your coming,
and the earth swayed
to the mute steps
of your soft leaving.

07 September 2022

(Redmoon of Bukidnon likes to describe himself as a trying hard poet.)

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