At 23, Christina wrote dead poems.
We all do, at different ages till dead.

In the meanwhile we look into eyes
And the redness in the corner uvea.

We love Christina’s grass under dew
But we hate a dew in the lower uvea.

Eyes may be dead for future poems.
Borges had to imagine whole library.

We go on with dead poems in mist
Till we are grass in a  morning dew.

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