I have two objections to the last line. First, it is very telly: the
writer is simply handing me a conclusion. Second, some aspects of the
description easily conform to aspects of feeling in love.
Carl
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The Winter Palace In Summer
Snow now is no more than a memory,
like an image of perfection.
A name is not enough to halt the seasons
but the nights are almost as light as day
and offer a refuge from our fears.
An owl glides between the trees
in silent search of dusk and prey.
A 100 years of pain are on the palace walls
but near the ornamental waters
the statue of a nymph stands inviolate,
surrounded by tall elms.
The moon is nearly full, and faint
among the shattered clouds.
This feels nothing like being in love.
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