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per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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How hard it is sometimes to write of arguments
When all of these words are in love with each other!
Whether tumbled to glow by the rivers of language
Or new-hewn from the rich ore of our dreaming minds,
They chime in jewel-music through our minds,
Spill from our lips, darting, dancing,
Desiring connection, linking and chaining
To enchant the world. Not that they
Are only happy things- our souls’ children,
They are also prey (and predator) to terrors,
Sadness, deceit, despair, rage, regret.
All these are fit freight for them. But what
A waste to spend them on petty fights,
Little frets; wit without pity, devoid of joy.
Yet far better to speak a thousand thousand
Times of glorious trivia, than to keep silent save
For a few crabbed and bitter serious sentences.
Every minute, and minute speck, is worthy
Of our tongues’ spendthrift largesse.
There is a time to keep still, but also
A time to speak- and when we do, we can,
We should, we must choose wisely.

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Lovely and thought provoking.

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