It wouldn’t be that memory
Of stained glass dust now
Scattered upon those grains
Before the windows disintegrated

It would be a high tide
Of a rising kind pulled by
A celestial body
Further into the shoreline

Where swells crash into
Tiny tidepools and decorate
Moon crabs with shards
Of stained memories

It would pierce the pressure
In my chest
It would relax all tense urge
Of needing to make these things

No longer murmurs
But palpitations
Beating the shore
With brass swells to crash

With bounties of lotus
Flowers and the memories’ edge
Relived once by carefully sculpted
Windows in sacred temples

Moon crabs now the only ones
Left to appreciate the lotus

No more murmurs

Only palpitations

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