We ebb, flow, branch,
wear mountains to mere stones,
then to sand, then to dust.
On high the sun doth shone,
keeping time. Why so early fuss?.
May this be naught but lust?
Time slows with the moon,
The scarce clair de lune.
Our brief eternity:
These few platinum hours,
pearl of pearls; you and me,
both floating, floating,
on our quiet, shimmering sea.



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