Swifter than moonlight paints the frosted stream.
Faster, perhaps than fireflies take flight,
Leaving whispered embers in the starry night.
No feast tonight, no crackling fire,
Just ashes cold, and hollow ire.
The river keeps its treasures deep,
Leaving dreams lost, while souls still weep.
Perhaps tomorrow, when the sun
Brushes the stream with golden fire,
A silver flash, a chase begun,
May set my longing heart afire.
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