lördag, juli 5

I wasn't born of a whistle or milked from a thistle at twilight

And though my wrists and my waist seem so easy to break
still, my dear,
I would've walked you to the very edge of the water
And they will recognize all the lines of your face
in the face of the daughter
of the daughter, 
of my little daughter

And darling, we will be fine
but what was once yours and mine appears to me
a sandcastle
that the jibbering wave takes

But if it's all just the same, then, will you say my name
(say my name?)
in the morning,
so that I know when the wave breaks

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