The sun beats down upon the sandy skin of shore,
A tide rolls in, cooling its face, its amber, timeless skin.
Off, distant on foamy waves arrive the strangers, new to this ancient place.
Tentatively the stranger’s journey along the smiling rim of island, touching a Nomadic Book washed ashore.
Like them, strangers
Drawn to this place, eager to lose themselves,
Eager to let their troubles, rush out with the whispering tide,
To find themselves, new, with amber faces from the sun,
To find themselves and be strangers, no more.
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