It is a perilous landscape we must cross
Not just the kiss or touch, or the lingering scent,
We recall again, and again
Long after we cease the ability to
Taste, or touch or smell,
Sitting above the church yard in a window
Like a bird, sad at the sights she sees
As if divorced from it, a silent sentinel
Amid the harrowing sounds of the city
The wail of sires, the impatient horns,
The fabric of existence out of which
We hope to harvest love, waiting
For others to fall into its abys
While she seeks to steal
The golden ring without falling out
Of the saddle, the up and down,
The changing leaves of an ancient tree
All she sees but can no longer retrieve
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