Cantus In Memoriam Childhood
The smoke of childhood lingers, it
weeps beneath arches of memory,
sugar-glass temples of deception,
window to that past of ever-sun.
White autumn strokes,
cries in a peopled mist.
Where now does the path lead?
Downwards, and soft ever-flowing.
We gaze behind,
upwards to those stone shadows which once we touched,
ever out of reach,
ever more distant.
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