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The Weight of Chronology
The rutted soil holds yesterday's quiet wreck.
Time spills forward, a tremor through veins.
We feed the roots with our salted refusals,
praying despite our clumsy hands.
Each breath recalls a thousand vanished...
Time spills forward, a tremor through veins.
We feed the roots with our salted refusals,
praying despite our clumsy hands.
Each breath recalls a thousand vanished...
