The hot air balloon is dreaming.
Softly, recalling bright yellow, orange, red.
Overflowing warmth, floating above the highest green;
Swallowed in blue, with a fire inside.
Inflated, smooth sides curve like hills, slipping through air
like a fish through water, like a snake through grass, like a
hand through hair.
Deflated, forgotten flat upon a meadow
Spewed like a tragic rainbow, ripped like a storm-beaten cloud.
The hot air balloon is dreaming. There are stars on the ceiling,
and all around.
A sphere within a sphere, bubble within bubble,
floating away.













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--
My path is bleak-before me stretch my morrows,
a tossing sea foreboding toil and sorrows.
And yet I do not wish to die,
be sure, I want to live-
think, suffer and endure.
-Alexander Pushkin
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