Eleanor of Aquitaine


There are stories from the past
That summon you like lighthouses
There is the delirium of diary pages
That storm your body with a convulsion of feelings
There are moments in the past
Relived in the present.

There are species that speciate
Out of love, but remain forever a fossil,
A missing link. Of what the earnest
Heart ploughed once from the soil, to plant
A seed of hope. To grow what is concealed
Beneath, to what has its own beautiful life.
Of how youth is a graveyard of memories
Each with an epitaph.

And hers stand….

La mer a mort a l’interieur de ma coeur.

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