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| Love |
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| We, unaccustomed to courage |
| exiles from delight |
| live coiled in shells of loneliness |
| until love leaves its high holy temple |
| and comes into our sight |
| to liberate us into life. |
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| Love arrives |
| and in its train come ecstasies |
| old memories of pleasure |
| ancient histories of pain. |
| Yet if we are bold, |
| love strikes away the chains of fear |
| from our souls. |
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| We are weaned from our timidity |
| In the flush of love's light |
| we dare be brave |
| And suddenly we see |
| that love costs all we are |
| and will ever be. |
| Yet it is only love |
| which sets us free. |
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| Maya Angelou, 1995 |
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