by Arthur Smid

Hammered by insistent dreams to build the future, the self has gone ahead. Around the table, dinner is served and the past is another lifetime. The old man is another man, too far to reach.

Hear me. Here we are. And there we go. Fallen into sleep. The lake of winsome doves bed down into you.

What can be won. Hearts can be won.
But don’t think of this my angel.
You are to be won. But don’t do it my child.

There is suffering and the kiss. The children’s song goes like this,
to win you have to lose.

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