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Mountains
rising from a train, in the sky, in the middle of the night,
in the mists of the morning after, a continuous sight,
fishhooks reflected in unattainable peaks,
flames filling the night, of death do they speak,
games played alongside the most delicate of arms,
maybe by smallpox or snakebite, presenting no harm,
camels and maggots, desert forts and dust,
to know these places, keep moving we must,
minding the gap, between reality and now,
opening our thinking, absorbing somehow,
for subsequent lives, will these moments create,
…here where the past, and the future,
conjugate.
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