July 13, 2009

B78. The sailor died

Come home, away from the water, He's Gone and not to return. Come
home, away from the coloring bugle or stacking sunshine, the flower grows
by the doorway. Come home, your bed is ready, the colt now runs in your meadow. And I will walk with you and hear your heart. Walk with me. Come home.

Posted by nancy at July 13, 2009 01:22 AM
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