The illusive autonomy of pain,
that veils the vital pair:
Ubiquity of purpose, and
austerity of air
So idle, until the moment
to tear the fetters free
Let drag your former chains behind,
then shackle them to me
It’s a willful burden born by love;
a love that bears all things
A love; autonomous like pain,
but illustrates the Springs
I would live in recluse before I’d die;
without this fellowship
And with only calls to mind inside,
Surely, surely I would slip.
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