Under grey waters under grey clouds
one pebble rolls, so weary and with so much to tell,
a traveler who can't remember his last day at home
except the half-occluded moon seeming more distant
than ever, incapable of conveying any consolation.
Could it be that this girl who walked past
our front door could be as lost in the mist, to us,
as the terracotta soldiers who slumbered so many centuries
that they forgot how to make war?
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