
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.

My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.

How my clay is made the hangman's lime.
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.

How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
--Dylan Thomas
Till tomorrow,
Love, Maia
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