Each time I felt wet swords in my eyes, I would loosen my stance and reach for them but each time I grasped nothing Would that I weep I would weep for my mother I know not the whereabouts of the Spring of Life’s Water but I hear it on the other side of a struggle out of these chains that I wear under my cloak Chains to fiction not lies or heard stories but to the unwritten thing that my chest is locked to Why fake a pilgrim, damnit, I am one
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I feel heard, I feel seen, thank you for your remembrance.