We fought for her, her hair
of raven or crimson or wheat,
her voice familiar or accented,
her skin pale or accentuated
by the sun, a thousand
ships with twenty men falling
to the sand or the shelf
of growing forests, or any place
at all that our sacrifice could
craft an altar of stone or air.
Her hair, her hair, her hair
like waves in the salted wind,
and when our eyes fell
lifeless
we were still in love.
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