4 Sep 2002 ReadMe   » (Journeyer)

The tides is low
The sand is clean
Not a trace
Of what has been

No breath of wind
Upon the deep
Ruffles the surface
Of its sleep

No face it appears
That I may reach
Save that upturned
Upon the beach

Whose salted lips
No words do say
To illuminate
The cold light of day.

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