It's these eyes.
There's something ethereal about them.
All shadow worlds
pass through them.
She has her
parents' eyes,
her beauteous
swarthy swathes
and deeper comprehensions;
the fascination
around their Nine Lives
passes peacefully
through those sunny beams.
She intimidates us.
She receives death
with stolid reserve.
**
She likes the golden hour.
It's the time
her face
turns towards
a mellow flourescence
and surprises us.
She doesn't leave the room
or her parents' side.
Her grief has eyes.
Her silence has a face.
She doesn't leave this room
or her parents' side.
It's their eyes
she takes after.
The indignity of a
thousand sobs
humbled before them.
They take so much
of this world.
***
The sun dims
over the pale river.
How humbling are the
shades
around her horizons.
***
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