Imagine every word a gesture in
the ancient recollections of the dance
no move that doesn't have it's origin
in something very, old, and yet it's glance
is only in this instant we're alive.
Only in us does it live on as touch.
Across the single distance bodies strive
to close, when nothing in between's too much
for God's old dancing task. It seeks inside
itself those things that pass, and that abide

Alarik Skarstrom

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