love is always carrying

love is always carrying:
the load, the memory, and on —
we walk alone, but cumbered as
we carry what we must

the orange turns to night-ink brown,
the path grows cool in wandering;
and love must make its weary way
to keep its living trust

for though the day is dying, there
will be now no more burying —
this ground is made for better things,
for love is always
carrying

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