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Perhaps time makes holy grails even of stone
And cathedrals of dense forests:
The next Jesus waits
As a tall poplar
In a petrified forest
And my heart is a stone altar
Yet to be discovered by men with oxen
Before the world falls apart again in fire
And ashes begin to rain from the sky.
Beat your ploughshares into patience
And empty your dream coffers-
The whirling black eye
Is full only of forgetting.
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