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What will remain of us
will be our ejected
and secretive secretion
as small as a haiku, as a tiny
peak because of the distance
- as a sun

those living dregs
that with time we melt in
spasm by spasm, drop by drop
like blood donors.

lt will remain at the bottom
neither heat nor thirst
won't help us
to sip from the secretion
and spit it, backward.

Dregs will become
even what we excreted by mistake
through the crack where
one life owes itself to another.

Our passion and desire will be tamed
and re-educated: we'll answer
to other names as if to ours.
Faith is temporary, oh tempora, oh mores !

Heaven then, like an experimental mirror
will sweat from our warm breath:

A simple proof for the cold, chilled