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Fernando Smith

Poetry 2

The price we pay The dancer I could not be you became, catching applause on a roll of the hip. The tree I planted reached out to your window dropping leaves onto the kitchen floor, taking eighty years to find a cheek. This is the price we pay for the lives we lead. The war ended empires fell rose and fell again legends lost in collective forgetting. "Who goes there?" "It is only me, my friend, passing through the night, living and dying marrying your daughters whispering in the ear of power disappearing your sons from street corners and classrooms taking my turn to dance around your roses."

The Last Station

We are at the last station
the eyes of longing have closed
the old sadness is lifted
it is a wave concussed
on the shingle of a
love affair at rest

The last station
a shy breeze reconciled
to the upper branches
of the pine, marrying
me to you
finding happiness among
the cones underfoot

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