The bondage of the heart
is rarely forged
with a chain that unites two living things.
Memory shutters the eyes
making the heart seem a desert
that can contain no living things.
Ghosts rise from the sands and dust,
all that remains of the passage of living things.
One sits worrying,
contentment stained by having met such living things.
The dog that scavenges nearby
strains to be welcomed among living things.
And I, Cassandra, shall be the one,
to throw ashes on the fire,
and speak of what is done.
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