It is quiet here -- my books, my cat,
my house and flowers. Friends and
comfort and the rush of music and
swirl of dance and the lush luxury
of words. It could be enough.
Yet I have known the danger-thrill,
the touch and taste and thrust of death
of pain of love, and I, I find that I
would race to you, embrace the
burning ice, the freezing fire,
the swift combustion, destruction,
regeneration, if only a moment in your arms.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
February 28, 1997
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