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Coins On The Tray
They laid their gold
on a tray the color of midnight,
fingers ringed in stones
that caught the candlelight like captive suns.
Outside,
a boy with a patched sleeve
watched frost stitch lace
across the bakery window.
His breath bloomed and vanished,
a ghost repeating itself.
The men inside
spoke of progress —
steel rivers,
glass towers that drink the clouds,
oceans combed for oil.
A gull’s cry cut through the smoke.
It smelled of salt,
of a shore too far to see,
where waves still bow
to no one.
And somewhere between the clink of coins
and the rattle of the boy’s thin cough,
the truth waited —
patient as winter,
sharp as the wind
slipping under the door.
Copyright ©
Dufflite Xetaw
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