| Just downstream from that dark place
|
| Where last beats fell and waters churned
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| A man looked down upon his face…
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| In reverie, his thoughts did turn:
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| To follow the river is to follow the arc
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| It does not drift, it does not wait
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| Find its course with limb and mind
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| There walks a man;
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| There runs his fate
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| To follow the river is to follow the thread
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| It does not lie, it does not leave
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| Drowning stones there as he does
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| He comes to think;
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| He comes to breathe
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| Something of that ember lives!
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| He feels it bide, he feels it wake
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| Looking out, but at itself
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| As if to speak;
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| As if to make
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| His vision forming, flowing now
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| In tumbling verse, in melting song
|
| Crafting words there as he does
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| They echo out
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| They echo on:
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| «But a vessel, alive
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| For a time, I would thrive
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| That was all
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| Nothing more lay below it…
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| But a vessel, adrift
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| Not a theft, nor a gift
|
| That was all —
|
| But a pulse, but a poet»
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| To drink from the river is to meet with the arc
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| And drink until quenched
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| The man did
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| But a vessel, adrift
|
| Not a theft, nor a gift
|
| That was all —
|
| But a pulse |