October 1, 2001
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the calling
tide turning to the moon
high above those lonely clouds
that hide her solemn face.
souls slipping to dreams beneath
the kelp, like ghostly shrouds,
whisper the songs of that place
beneath the implacable line
of sky. breathless, like the kiss
of angels, imperturbable and as divine
as the the memory of fire
burned deep in your blood.
Comments (2)
That is so lovely. Thanks for sharing it.
Nice poem, kinda haunting.. It sounds like having lost dreams and dreams of returning to that “other” place we idealize about, despite our prior history. -navdeep