November sonnet
A dense fog blows off of the sea,
Cool breah of water, salty sweet,
It touches, strokes, caresses me,
And carries home a distant fleet.
The ocean sings a soft refrain,
Its meaning never to be found,
Wile we go on its tune remains,
It sings long after we're around.
And so the tales of foam and mist,
Sing whether or not we exist.
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