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Viola d’amore

Sometimes love does die,
but sometimes, a stream on porous rock,
it slips down into the inner dark of a hill,
joins with other hidden streams
to travel blind as the white fish that live in it.
It forsakes one underground streambed
for the cave that runs under it.
Unseen, it informs the hill,
And, like the strings of the viola d’amore,
Makes the hill reverberate,
So that people who wander there
Wonder why the hill sings,
Wonder why they find wells.

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