Thursday, December 4, 2014


Watchful, as a hawk above a golden field, 
I see myself in your arms. 
It is a dream I cannot shake, 
A thought that once could have passed; 
But now has settled, 
For the long stay. 

Frost-- the world has ended in ice today:
Yes, and your bitter cold is silent. 
Frozen words are sharp stalactites, 
Unseen, they still pierce the heart. 
Yet, I ask: who ever arrived 
that did not depart?

Let us be on our way, and

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