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Perhaps in time,
the sun will light
separate gravestones in separate climes,
Granite-carved names snickering,
smiling at one another through fog and cloud.

Perhaps winds will carry
echoes of your laughter
to taunt some phantom folly of mine.

Perhaps snow will taste
the sweat of lovers,
eyes locked upon a familiar outline
etched on a palimpsest of souls,
a fleeting memory compelling them together.

Perhaps our spirits will drink
of love in another lifetime,

But not this one.

James Tze-Ming Hsiao