Monday, November 2, 2020

Years by Jon Anderson


Sometimes in weariness I stop.
Because I’ve been lucky
I think the future must be plain.
Over the trees the stars are quite small.
My friends talk quietly
& we have all come to the same things.
Now if I die, I will
Inherit awhile their similar bodies.
Now if I listen
Someone is telling a story.
The characters met.
They enchanted each other by speech.
Though the stories they lived
Were not the same,
Many were distracted into love,
Slept, & woke alone, awhile serene.

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