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ISLAND |
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by Charles Carreon She beckons to you Come, come -- Come to where she lies, Her body like a curving island Lapped by foam
Springs of fresh water flow, Warm ocean breezes blow, Ripe fruit droops, waiting To be picked, Bright plumed birds watch from hanging branches; More brilliant even than the fragrant orchids
Come, she beckons to you, Come, to where she lies, Her body to a slope of glowing amber Turned by sunset dyes.
A voice, as mystical as that of circling seabirds Sounds in silence As ponderous as the sound of crashing waves,
Come, she cries To the end of the earth -- Across the sea of curling waves to me, To where all treasure lies, And beckons with her silent eyes.
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