I stand in quiet by the stream,
and wait for a key.
Either I was left behind or I
left something close;
a part of my life doesn't move.
There's a loss as if all
of history has been replayed
in the dramas lived here.
These horses don't know me,
and the epoch is new.
The fields are fields, the silver
air no truer than anything else.
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Comments about this poem (The Visit by Zorika Petic )
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