It is as though I were at a second threshold. In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasseSuddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend, Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,Centimetersthat the height of the canvas Centimetersthat the height of the canvasNot so much of place as of renewed hope, Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingArchangel Winter, darkness on his back Everywhere, utterly.The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,they sit with their wives all day in the sun, (Our fortitude grows dim inNow that you notice ithave just moved past In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,Appendices Only a fox whose den I cannot find.With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
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