In the crucible of presence
we spun together our stories
Made of magnificent ingredients and special flavours
These tales, rich in tears and fear
It smelled of laughter and of doubt
Its colour shine with excitement and depression
In our crucible were spices we never understood
They tingled the tongue and electrified the nerves
They filled my senses and compelled my heart to desire
These tales filled these crucibles and flowed over
yet, we kept pouring from the oceans that ran within us
Like in a race to beat the [rising] sun,
these words flowed from our bosoms
A broken faucet that could not be kept suppressed
At least, not for now

And so these stories filled our crucible
Only God know, what we eventually will make


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