The windmill spun on the wind gently,
Creaking and ever-so-softly moaning, moaning, moaning,
Dreaming that its old wings might yet set it free,
Something Mystics once urged upon it that it never quite forgot,
A bird unable to joust from the air of the sea,
It carried the memory of all things of wings,
Pushing water and pumping air.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 02/13/2011
"Rembrandt...Sleeping" Poem #8
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