Birthdays roll like billows from the deep
main of time to our shores. They stand
still firm, uneroded, the great wave
still long in coming that sinks the isles
of our existence, makes all our years
a lost Atlantis, dimly perceived under
the waves by those who then remain,
who remember or have been told
of our glone glory, these bright years
that tower in the air that will
rest in the deeper blue. But that
is for the future beyond plentiful
years, and the slow wave breaks
on our shores, leaves its gifts,
and to the horizon it lies
serene and still, the ocean
of time and life, for us.
21.02.2025
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