By the riverside

your skin in the morning,

love, like milk

or the coolness

of the dew.

Did you see the flowers,

love, bathing

in the river?

They sing the song

of sun, water, earth

and the wind blow them


into dust.

Are you not the same,

love?  The milk of your skin

grows sour

in the light of the moon.

We cannot stay the same

if we do not change.  Rest not then

on this body, love,

built for pleasure

and its sister, pain.

When you held the moon

in the depths of your eyes

were you not something

far greater?


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