Monday, July 17, 2006

#77: July 9, 2006

All this will soon pass into memory
My love, and whatever small price we pay
For a moment's fleeting pleasure, who will stay
To accuse us of this petty thievery
Of time? For it's from Time that we must wrest
Each moment of gladness; and we must steal
Our bodies' warmth and pressure, and the feel
Of us locked tight, like gold coins from a chest.

The years stretched out before us may be dry
And bare of the bounty that flowers yet
In such abundance--and we may regret
These instant treasures we let pass us by.

This Summer stays a moment, then it leaves;
So come, my dear, and let us love like thieves.

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