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how often now
my soul is fed
with crumbs of yesterday
of memories
I’ve yet to give

o precious song
of silent lips
when whispered –
come to me
could e’er the wind
such mystery

a solitude
of aging sands –
by graces undenied
tis not for me the silver
grew –
another youth
to hide

years replayed
and laid again –
o’er those I dare not keep
dreams –
beyond the countenance
of sleep

within the hall
where time is charged
by one still yet
to know –
love becomes a river
to wash upon
my soul

. . .