The figure sits alone by the window
Upstairs in the house by the bay.
Day after day with nothing to say
To the closing horizon with a drowning sun;
The empty frigates and the tall ships -
They each follow along with silent lips.
As the daily procession of each morning
Pleads with the sky to reason with sign:
“Why! Oh, why has the sea
made a widow out of me!”
If she could only take back time
And return her wanderer’s rhyme.
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