An Ancient One

Walk softly, the quail are rummaging
Beneath your limbs, brittle strands of hair

An ocean of air, caresses you softly
And ten thousand voices call my name

How many have come before me?
Asking as the child with silver hair

There have been many, some still lie at my feet
You hear them, I know you do

I do.

Will spring come soon?
Sooner than you think my love.
Sooner than you think.

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