Rembrandt
I touch your hair,
but you're not there,
my Saskia.
I roll in crisp linen sheets and stare into space,
king Nebuchadnezzar's face looks out to the sea.
I see your eyes
look into mine,
my Saskia.
I hear your soft singing rise and fall through the air,
and delicate curls of hair calm waves in the sea.
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