Flood
Small hands pull
a mud-stained pillowcase
across wet ground,
prized possessions,
blessings still bound,boxes filled with
half-spilled lives,
lugged uphill.Hear the river roar:
I take all
I take all
from those
who look back.
Listen
I came here to count the bells
that live upon the surface of the sea…
Here by Pablo NerudaNow on this turquoise sea
glitter a million silver reflections
of the morning sun. And I think
they make no sound at all—Still, I listen.
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