Dylan called grief the thief of time
But it is time stealing the urgent
Pain of grief that leaves
A poor facsimile in its place
Time has slipped away with
The bone-raw moment
When all is clear
When all is laid bare
And now
My grief like marsh water, sits
Still, fetid
In need of a cleansing rain to
Strip it naked and
Scour it of the
Sin of forgetting
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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