The names
float like spores
on the brightening air. Light,
relieved of their pain, of their sorrows
of flesh, they sound on the tongue,
when spoken, like a song.
Their meanings, however,
escape us, as do their spirits,
barely known, re-crossing the river,
at home. Say them, now, slowly:
hear them rise and dissolve
in the freedom they wanted, alive
Peter Marin
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