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Surely you must know that fire.
Surely there must stir in you
a similar burning,
a revolution with the same soul,
albeit with different
street names to march on,
flags to wave and
subversive songs to chant.
I’m sure somewhere
you have also concluded
that the stuff you are made of
must be bigger than your body,
that you are a foundling
of rivers and rainstorms,
a love child of the worldly
and the celestial.

The crashing waves that
had awakened you
all those nights in the city
were coming from
inside your dreams.
Your visions are the spirit
of pulsing traffic and
sparkling skylines.
The sweet scented silence
perfecting your solitude
is the voice of the moonlight
that lives within your skin.

Your deepest peace
is the intense blue of
lapis lazuli, dug up
from the bowels of the earth
crushed into fine, expensive powder
for Renaissance painters
to render the color of the sky
in cathedrals of faith.
Your passion is the blood-red
echoes of wars that
you are too young to remember,
but too connected not to feel
throbbing inside you,
next to your desires.
And at the very core of you,
you are the universe’s
inspiration for springtime,
a vivid study in green,
part chaos and part mythology
for scholars and romantics
to feast on for centuries,
a million worlds,
a million heartbeats,
a million days of summer
ready to begin.

“Dream” by photographer Edward Gulunyan


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