The words are burned by our intimacy. They leap too quickly to their (possible/impossible) conclusions: the unimaginative end that the period reccomends, the meandering pause of the comma. Just poetry, unjust rhetoric. There is a kind of answer in assonance, and there is drama in onomatopoeioa, in all languages:
(One only need think of the Portuguese for waterfall:
cachoeira
cash-ooo-error-a,
the four distinct sounds that water--
bubbling out of the past, shattering into the future--
might make...)
Sigh
The sorrow of waterfalls
how the heart breaks
before such beauty,
this shattering mirror
forever finding
the hardness of marble.
...the softness of liquids
their vulnerable state
allows some transcendence.
The spray appears
the half-hidden wings
of angels rising.
There is always
something being
taken from us.
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