As he grew older, he was filled with the world:
Its broken joys, delicious longings,
Heart-pain, sheer beauty, and vast poignancy.
His mind still churned, and his heart still desired,
But somehow his soul had emptied out,
And into the breach poured light and shadow,
The beating of other hearts, the glorious mess of the world.
In time he realized that he was this emptiness;
He was the vessel, and not what it contained.
He was this endless pouring-in of magic –
Pouring into nothing, and leaving no trace.
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