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Lorelei Lorelei, the birds chime dusk not lovely, but monstrous winged noise, repeating the dark day sung. I am too heavy with body, lying like dead wood to mourn these useless empty arms. Here I'll wait out the stretch in our past fen and meadow, where pale crocus kiss and blue bees hiss and zag. I can still dream of you, you and green, that idiot of April, haggard on the breast of summer. One blade of your voice would be sky for tomorrow and we'd bask magnificent in June, where salt blown conch and mere tides witness our every stolen moment. Their careless cries for us returning bare, to dance upon the shadowed sand. |
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