Just This

Unalloyed joy, unalloyed despair.
A long drawn out sigh,
then silence.

A play of infinity,
so mysterious,
so sacred, yet so profane,
beyond measure,
beyond words:

Whole universes come and go,
in a single breath -
the poet died and died again.

Such profound beauty:
Much mirth about nothing!

What to say? What to do?
Silence. Nobody. Nothing.
Just this?

Just this.
Gah, just this!
I laugh again.

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