Forward from where we came . . .
‘Oh, roamer from lands where the vanished years go…’
Come out of your silence and tell me if Life is so fair in that world as they say? Do these sorrows die out with our breath?
I am an early riser. Often a curse, sometimes a blessing as was the case this early morning of traveling through the west of Ireland. In the retreating shadows my memory wandered to loved ones the sun shined on yesterday but those passed are not subject to season or to time.
Perhaps the best of such memories live just outside of direct light.
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