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there were once waters, here

What do my eyes know of waters
that my hands not know of love,
my lips not know of loss?

Does the stone know not of moss?
And is a falcon not known of the dove?

And still my feet have walked the waves
for comforts far lesser than a smile
or a fluttering of wings

or a myriad other precious things
that only come every once in a while.

Yes. There were once waters, here,
limpid pools of shimmering sky blue.
A memory of a rustling of fingers
where once there used to be you.
© Nina Light 2013 CC-BY-NC-ND


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