for a bud,

once he spoke of his story,
an unfinished one,
it got a song of its own,
a song so full of pathos
that it could make a dove even
to seat for a while by his side,
and to weep for him,

it had a song of unmitigated suffering,
and the dove,
being drenched by his forbidden tears
wept too,

and that weeping,
being stored in oyester shells,
turned into pearls,
for that weeping
was straight from heart,
no glycerine,
no makeup.


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