It was a fallen tree
On an island too small
Where forgotten evenings
Upon it secretly
Told the story
Of pleasant times
Lost
To angry waves
… It was a tired
horse
That took me through the streets
Unnoticed
As the shadow is
When lonesome eyes
Look for the sunsets
Toward the West
The rider who will
Breaks us all
Is neither the anger
Of restless waves
Nor the coldness
Of cities without walls
It is the ache
Of being there
When all have left
December 25, 2015
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2015
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