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The tide at twelve
In times of trouble I skim the water like a pebble's sigh that I must find
My own level, my own level.
I cast my eyes out to the ends
of the world and I
wait here on the banks
of the River Time.
I am adrift on hope
and this too shall pass
with the rest of love
in the coldest water.
A language of light
For those that wish to speak
A language of sight
For those that wish to seek
Find my own level
This hollow awaits the force of the storm
I am the spirit flowing from the mouth of the tide.
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