and curved, scarred from
childhood
farm
work in
the great fields
which stifled
his imagination, toiling
under
the blue harvest
of a cold sky.
could he see the ocean
from
the hill
he played on?
see the ancient faces
of rocks
ragged against the shore,
could he
smell the salt and fish
on the air?
could he reason with himself
that one
day
he'd set sail
and never
come to port again,
not here?
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