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It is too late this evening to start

to write a sonnet worthy of this page

but I will make an effort from the heart

this impossible errand to assuage.

For in the constellation of these words

some meaning may be happily derived

Like augury transforms the flight of birds

into omens desperately contrived.

The tick-tock sun is setting on this day

and time is being eaten by the sky

ephemera is gently swept away

as goals erode into the by and by.

And so a failure I will aim to be

who can not claim this day a victory.

Painting by Alexandre-François Desportes

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