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CCCXLI

April 17, 2014

I was a ghost within the mist, a breath
upon the fog, as morning light grew cold
around the stones where you were lying, pale
and sleeping—beautiful, angelical,
and finally at peace. The builders of
this monument—could they have fathomed, years
ago, that on a morning centuries
to come, a deity would rest her head
upon their crafted stone? The light would’ve had
me fade away as crawling through the fields
came uniforms and officers, but in
my eye a wetness lived that kept the sun
at bay—the fog remained, and I remained
within it, weeping. Could they not allow
your rest? My insubstantial hands could not
hold back the dust, and as they entered through
the temple doors the veil tore, and, soft
upon the morning, you awoke upon
the earth: the purest woman, faithfully
presented—wronged, and wronged again, and now,
a final time, but as the mist begins
to thin, I see a peace within your eyes.

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