Rolling Tide

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    Written in 1996 This is more of a story

    Rolling Tide

    On a high moonlit mountain
    they lay a child counting the beads
    of heaven against the dark silk curtain.

    Overlooking the deep black see, a reflection of
    one in need, scattering its image under the moon
    among the soft weeds.

    like a page turnover, nature turns around
    on each on every stone, the drops of rain
    was sound.

    it harmonized its song with the wind and the waves,
    all of god's creatures sheltered in the caves

    the child on the mountain had no where to go, afraid
    of going back in a strong ocean flow

    trying to keep pace on the edge of the cliff, the wind
    was rolling high, it made the cliff to shift
    it washed and  carved everything in sight.

    A solitude being in the dark covered sea, hands up in hope and endless
    desperation, if the cliff falls and everything will cease.

    Nature paused at this un-intention, life passed like the storms and waters calm. Years go by and the child returns to the cliff  in dreams and hopes a new change what if?

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    Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

    Plato (BC 427-BC 347) Greek philosopher.

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