by Lucille Cliftonour children will not remember a place where the wind does not sleep at night like this, at ease in the arms of trees. they will know no waters more lovely than these where we, in our exile, weep. though we are lovely, we suffer from such loneliness, the way even these moonlit waters would suffer if only the blind stars looked on night after night after night. who could bear for long the weight of such beauty as this?
