This I do not know or guess.
This is a painting I chiaroscuro.
This self that neither begins nor ends.
This self that discolors the future.
This self that is the life force.
This I neither hide nor flee.
This I do not calm the wounded soul.
This I neither silent nor respond.
I This kills me, though do not die.
This self that demands your presence.
This I hope you expect when
and despair only by your absence.
This self-exile condemned to a long-
without you is becoming less Emilio.
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