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Eagle
Where
do you fly, my love?
How
could you leave me here again
in
summit high bereavement?
At
night I gently lift
the
pieces, fold them,
mould
them, make them
whole
once more
and
wait with breath held
for
the rising of the distant dawn
until,
at last, I see -
my
soaring nemesis
approaching
winged
and
growing closer
framed
against the sun.
StarFields 1998 |
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