deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Gate
The gate stands by a field that leads down the slope to a river.
The gate opens with a creak, its wood rough after years of use.
From the gate, one can see the water, smooth, almost silent,
A steady stream that is always there,
A faithful friend, like the creaking gate.
The gate opens with a creak, its wood rough after years of use.
From the gate, one can see the water, smooth, almost silent,
A steady stream that is always there,
A faithful friend, like the creaking gate.
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