I heard them calling out all your names,
by the tree grove, and I passed you by;
to seek the sunlit path, I lean on the sky.

You might ask me who they were, those
I’ve left behind me, but they were merely
those who gather, a people without mine.

And who are they but they who are truly
with me always as I wander on onwards,
looking for that warm spot to rest and write.

Tell me I have, there, right upon your heart.

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