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9.
The winter of our breath was the blue
Of the sky, the sound of our feet
On the crust was a crisp horizon,
The taste of your tears was salt, the sea
Extending like your arms to the hill. Time
Has come between us: there are not enough
Lives to live. Blood and marrow age
Almost unnoticed until dusk is falling
Bombs splintering home, child, street. What love
Grows amid the rubble, how do we return
To the silence by the shore, sublimate
The noise that distracts us from what matters?
This life sentence demands the mending
Of exile, healing the scar, the winding.