During that empty silence,
Can you believe in thunder?
Or in the hollow darkness,
Can you imagine lightning?
Are they becoming more real
In the spaces that come after?
Or are they merely phantoms,
Empty instants of power
That live for only a flash
Or for one echoing roar?
Do they - all but for a blink -
Mean nothing, or cease to be?
How pitiful their shows are, then.
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