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Copywrite by
Nicholas Gordon |
Fifty-six feels frequently at home,
Internally at ease with who she is.
For her the journey's flattened to a sea
That has no moorings marked as hers or his.
Years yield peace, though yearnings yet may roam.
So do the turning days become a poem
In which the questions vanish from the quiz,
X'd out by an unchained serenity. |
