And one day
when applause has died
and the delighted have burdened
tired streets with leaden feet,
when wings imagined are recognised
when the earth seems too small a platform
when you’ve surprised the sun,
then, in a mirror made of a Tuesday
or a month erroneously erased,
every dance choreographed
and those yet unborn
will in suspended disbelief confess
‘We were in your eyes blueprinted.’
[Pic by Prishan Pandithage]
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