The past exceeds its burden
Unwilling yet open
To perspectives and interpretations,
Wounds from it search for ointments
Far outside the reach of consolations,
And one looks beyond
Until the beautiful
Emerges at the threshold
Of what is gone
And what is yet to come.
I smile looking back at Beatrice
Dante's purgatorio shouts of my own grave,
Beyond and beyond I must see,
Beyond the past that chains my feet.
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