Once across a time

I dream myself awake . . . In an old land, in a former time. And I am myself young, no, younger. You see me gathering poppies at the front gate in a silken gown. And you stop. The flowers play with us. There are no mistakes. We go on living, having no dislike, having no suspicion. I never laugh, being bashful. I never look back. In the spring you go away your feet hesitating through white blossoms, through fragrance fading . . . The swallows are sorrowing in the late sky. Days become years. At the front gate the moss is grown thick. And in the garden the butterflies don't stop returning heavy with summer. Their wings hurt in my hair. Now from the prison of an old dream, in a former time, I begin to write to you across the centuries: Dear one,m If you come back through the seasons, please let me know soon and I'll come out to meet you as far as Autumn . . .m

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