Oh! Sweet languor!
of melting bones and heavy tread,
how sweetly still your cocoon.
Even the sun takes a moment
from his mighty haste between prospects
to idly linger and paint my eyelids
with soft, warm fingers.
And the travelling breeze,
who gathers unto herself
the sweet sounds and scents of spring
delivers them to my notice, gently,
with a hushed reverence,
mindful of my quietude.
But how laughable is this notion of languor.
Because I too, in my deceptive stillness,
move forward,
imperceptibly yet inevitably forward
in time and thought.

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