Best of all the silver willow tree.
Its weeping limbs fanned my unrest with dreams;
it lived here all my life, obligingly.
I have outlived it now, and with surprise.
There stands the stump; with foreign voices other
willows converse

Anna Akhmatova

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We are the message in the bottle
bobbing unopened on the ebbing tide:
a cipher on a slip
of paper curled
and the Reason Why.
We are the writing that stayed dry,
and cannot read itself.

Robyn Sarah

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