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What if


     the music of the spheres could be always heard on earth?


     Planets would vibrate along orbits stretched like catgut,


     with each star humming a piece of the absolute harmony.




What if


     all air was colored brightly?


     Breezes would gently stir impressionist patterns,


     while refugees from thunderstorms went brilliantly insane.




What if


     ideas could be tasted?


     Imagination would drip down the chin like peach juice,


     washed off by Truth, as cold and clear as ice water.




In those places, I would write a poem


     as musical as the new moon.


     as colorful as a vacuum.


     as bittersweet as a sleep without dreams.

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