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The poetry of a Sunday spent in the arduous search for a balance

Eugenio Montale

Happiness reached

Happiness reached, walk
for you on the edge of the blade.
eyes gleam that wavers
to six foot, stretched ice that cracks;
and therefore does not touch you who loves you more.

If you come upon the souls of sadness
invaded and cleared, your morning is sweet and
disturbers like the nests of cornices. But nothing
pay a baby crying
that runs the ball between the houses.