Issa would see the sea
and his dead mother
always together
O mother he would say
weeping for the sea
for the one with everything
he would feel compassion
as the one with nothing
he would take the time
to form the stubble
on his face or to sit
beside the asters for
an afternoon cold
in the wind you know
the purple ones waiting
by the sides of the roads
bearing the last promptings
of the marching clouds
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