Ours was the grey by the willowing bay,
Where tides, alone, took dry away.
I let mine flow with nothing to show,
But that was nearly a century ago.
Might I have saved those colors I shaved
For just another year,
Would I be brighter and most of life lighter?
In sight of that, I fear.
Still, home is the place, no matter my face,
Where ambrosial colors draw near and embrace.
My sun-dried sin, so real back then,
Likely that he has forgotten again.
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