my tongUe speaks
to aNy ear;
Days go by,
growing moRe
unsEasonable;
theSe days that remain -
it doeSn't
mattEr how many.
Day turns to night;
I bake Bread for you,
mY lovely
chiLd.
hOw did you gain
the silVer which
enslavEs you?
from Rumi 10-24-03
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