How often are things simply clear and right? Each day we come to moments of despair. Love is something wonderfully there, Even in the blackest hours of night. No one can tell why one of all the rest Makes our flower open to the sun. In truth we could love almost anyone. Choosing, though, does not involve a test. How often does an angel touch our skin, Altering forever who we are? Every passion fades, but love's a star Lit by holy fires deep within.

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