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Over the years
many a time
people have asked,
“Who are you?”

I started to feel
like they wanted to know
what mould I fit
what shape my slot was,
and I started to rebel.

And then I found some words.

And the next time someone asked me,
“Who are you?”
I replied:

I am the shadows that flit through the night
I am the breeze that rustles the leaves in the trees
I am the instant that still waters frost over into a sheet of ice
I am the soft coolike sound of the pygmy owl that aches the night
I am the sun’s reflection that rainbows through morning mists
I am the sound you almost hear when the bat sings its trilling
I am the ripple in the pond spreading to the edges of the world
I am the aurora dancing flickingly across the skies
I am the heart of the rose where scent and colour combine
I am the silver shining moon over an unmarked expanse of snow
I am the mountain that waits like a sleeping dragon
I am the sun’s reflection on an iridescent scale on a butterfly’s wing
I am the blueness of sky twixt dusk and twilight that almost glows
Who are you?

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