RISING, RETURNING
Rising through mist and rust and gold.
The rain coming and going and the oaks holding on.
History repeating itself, as it always does,
And the eternal poets weeping and laughing
In their sunlit words.
We shall reach home soon, as we always do,
Until the very last time when time shall slow and stop,
And the oaks, only, will be holding on then
In rust and gold and sunlit drifts.
—
simonhlilly 
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