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A full moon above the mountain peak,
The evening wind in your hair,
The bright night in your eyes.
Further, the forrest full of whispers,
The river's golden flow passing quickly,
Without reflecting your image.
The great, white city, sleeping unsuspectingly,
Waiting for the morning to rise,
With bright new hopes.
Come, then, again
To the gardens of lost childhood.
Do not torture your mind
With sad self-deceptions.
Happiness is only one slow expectation.
Stand next to me on the front step,
To accept the new messages.
And close outside your door,
The mad ill-blowing wind,
The storm that surrounds this house.his house.
© 2000 George Pararas-Carayannis
The realization of
truth is more difficult than its discovery.