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A Letter, As A Dry Leaf

 

And there is a time to imagine:


through drought to finis.


So long on the parched plain,


the city of the earthquake becoming


real as myth; silent and still.


Time to feel spent sorrows fly


drinking in the desert, the ruins,


of  sorrow multiplied. 

 

 

Unable to imagine a future


in stillness a wind prepares to blow


in silence, of anger unaware


beside a grain of sand, new growth.

◄ Sheep May Safely Graze

Atlantic Cliffs ►

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