LACONIC

The grief of death inflamed me so much that my glow returned to the sun

which sends me now to the perfect syntax of stone and ether.

Then, he whom I sought, I am.

Oh, linen summer, wise autumn,

minimal winter,

life contributes its olive leaf mite

and in the night of fools it confirms again with a small cricket the lawfulness

of the Unhoped-for.

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