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Ancient Breeze

Seven days have gone
Seven decades past
It feels like you, or me,
Or both have turned to dust.

When the fire inside,
Has burned me inside out
Will you still be turning
In throes of restless doubt?

Will the ancient breeze
Scatter the petals I send,
My ashes in the river
Be carried round the bend?

The permafrozen soil
Will it yield to touch
Will the grass grow
From the ashes in the mulch?

I hope its not too late
Before you learn to see
There's no one in front
None, hiding behind me.

 

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  New works || Sketchbook || Old works || Old-master studies || About me || Contact