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Your eloquence is polished marble minarets
Sparkling in the noonday sun
Your tears are a veil of frost on the trees in winter
Restrained and hidden in the dying light

I cannot reach you in the holy places
I cannot find you; doors close in my face
I have been searching day and night

My outstreched hands brush against the surface
Cold as iron, smooth as glass
Are you real, or a mere phantom of my dreams
Created to torment me in this way?

© 2006 Margaret Haugen