I don't believe you.
I don't believe your reasons
And your analysis of the seasons.
And I don't believe that you know.
Perhaps
In inner courtyards
When the skies purple with ink
You show
But I don't believe you know.
The spirit touches upon infinite things
And baubles that a christmas brings
Drift to snow.
And yet, infinitessimally
I don't believe you know.
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