Virgin of Vladimir

FAR FLUNG

I miss them.
I miss them all.

The years have flung them about,
Scattered them to the four winds
With little care,
And less a say.

My friends, not here,
But there,
And everywhere.

So hard to hold,
Though near, in heart,
But, oh, so very far apart.

So very dear!
I want them,
Here.