Love, if I must speak, let me be brief, for the birds are singing. And Love said, Each to his joy, his grief, his responsibility — not as tyrant, or teacher, but as melody.
Shepherd’s Song
Your hour, my century,
said the mountain.
Your stone, my grief,
said the man.
Your words, my longing,
said the wind.
Poems, Slightly Used, January 16, 2010
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces, Poems, Slightly Used
William Michaelian 