MYTHS | ||||||
Here are some dried weeds To place on your sill To warn your todays of past years. Their death-rattle laughter Will rasp in the breeze, And echo no hope... Yet, no fear. Outside are wild flowers, Awave in the sun, A promise of life born anew. Their spirit is timeless, it cannot be held; They are yours.. But, always Are free. My gifts are of Life, And, of death to the myths That whisper in dead, winter weeds. ~ doza 5/98 |
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