No trace of blue in my sockets;
no red paint on either cheek;
none on the forehead as well;
but my words – they slur as I speak.
My feet are in a hurry;
my mind in the comfort of clouds.
The river is calm as today's skies.
I wiped off the mote in my brow.
Desires uncertain, motives unclear—
I cannot distinguish for sure.
Did I mistake for having forgotten
When in truth I had only let go?
The mote to my horror is blue.
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