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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