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The Mystery of Things
Poems and Stories
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
There is no cliff
In the shroud
Of fog
No edge
Upon which
A foot will falter
There is no time
When the birds fly off
And the ancient park is locked
Forever
All fantasies you say
As you move forward
Through the darkening land
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There is no cliff In the shroud Of fog No edge ...
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S. Karlan
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