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Mist: In the capital city

Betrayal of the thread that appears
and disappears
when the disciple is prepared to set out.
Today that’s the mist we see burning
over the city.
Mist of lime, powdery,
(on its particular day) it will lead you to discover
faith.
A sufficient quantity of leaves to dry in the seawater
of the purple bay.
How long did I contemplate the line dividing
the branch from the water.
So many that I fell, fell again
into vicious circles
speaking lies.
“To err, to err,” the circles always said
and the thread pulled apart.
I realized:  this is called wastage.
The dark branch dipped finally into the water
colliding with today’s mist (putting on its gold)  
so I would understand the necessary amount of faith
which this day will exceed, and that one
with its gentle undulating motion.
Because it’s the sky who opens the door
and its color brings us rest from ire,
from anxiety.
Afterwards it separates the mysteries, the customs
--the wretched creaking behind mist that goes away
when it appears (another thicker screen),
the soul?