“Oh, Suns will be Suns!”

The young sun bled through the lacuna,
its bitter stance of caress to us unfelled.
How soft its rebirth, redressed from nightly egress
and clouds that clot its beams.  Does
the sun know it’s sick?  Does it feel its
own burning?  Like youth so full of Latin
seeds, this world so strewn with populous
beams.  It will build houses of warmth, and
unfail its daughters and sons.  Its sickness
will outlive itself, like legacy, or a young
Latin puppet, both a father and a son,
imbued with a sickness, that it cannot
fully feel and ne’er full reveal.

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