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Our days are longest now, we hold the light
solid between our fingers, like putty,
before twirling, once more unstoppable.
These are days we dream of deep in winter,
when we are banished in eternal night.
These are days suffused with strange rare magicks,
when our flame bodies flicker translucent.
We manifest what we will. Morning sparks
alchemical. Our fingertips bristle.
Play the music! Let us unite as one
before the world tips inevitably
back towards the shortening hours of sun.
How precious these illuminated days.
How soon, like warm embers, they start to fade.

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