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All I have is a voice
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With the certainty of tides,
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As late as yesterday Nature celebrated their birth,
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of a sky incessantly paling my grain of sky
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the great poet struggles with a dumpling.
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don’t say “in these dark days”
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And I see that my own hands can make
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And that wilderness from which I hear a faraway echo is my body, is it not?
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time. “Are they real?” she asks me, and I watch her reckon the distance
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Time always matters, as the woman said, yesterday I am …