The Isle of the Dead.
Proud copse of evergreen trees bound by clean-hune white stone.
Lazy ancient waves lap its forlorn shore.
Such nourishment necessary for this dense thicket of green-life.
What forces here prevade?
The Isle of the Dead.
Names carved in Cyprus.
Will I walk among the bows of these somber stalks of life?
Will I press back the dark and seek,
not wander, seek.
Strive.
Drag, dig, drudge.
A frenzied toil claiming
all I have to spend or wish.
Or wander, without aim.
Without promise,
but without aim.
Seek hidden voices among old waves.
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