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I play opera
when the sun
is about to set outside.
Vincero, it sings
and I think
on victory.
The last rays
give in to the night
like sovereign bows
to another.

Do we bow with grace
as we fall
from the same?
Are we with grace
as we stand
victors before the fallen?
Are we vindicated
as victors
or did the winning
make a mockery
of all?

My, but the thoughts
do take twisting turns
as darkness falls
and twilight comes
on dancing feet
that trip with gladness,
float with sadness
that invites
to sing the blues.

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