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What lies beyond
The distant hills
Grey silent below the slated sky
Swathed in child-like trees
Their urgent arms
Reaching, ever reaching
Upward to the blue
As if searching like orphans
For the touch of blood,
The checkered yellow-green
Browning fields
Whose history unspoken
Buries itself deeper
Beneath the silence of the years
Its time-cloak masking
Wisdoms lost,
And plucked eyes turn blind
Like carcass shells empty
To birds who lost the scent
On distant winds
And came to stay
Too late,
Watching creeping vines
Like hands upon the dial
Reclaim the pathways worn
By ages lost
To sight.

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