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The Wait (Revised)
She had left when he returned, like
fading of the moon in approaching morn.
The mountains never complained,
seasons thus could play their tricks,
else trees would have withered in
simmering summer and retreating rains.
Now the winter gossips with autumnal parch,
and the mountains laugh a silent laughter,
a cave ricochets the sound of vesper hymn,
his face smiles with knowledge; a sunbeam
cajoles the snow to melt; she's sure to return.
--
c s shah
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