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The group in the wilderness,
putting there hands in the sky
and then pointing them to the ground,
bricks lining the end of the
wall, a sing playing like orange in the
sky, the first child jumps, and there is
a pool in the pit, and the mountains
are pyramids, rain forests and deserts,
millions of miles, sugar in the fields,
in their veins. Their hands carrying
guns and masks over their
faces until their ages and eye colours
are blotted out of book of law,
fields of ink, letters of life.
A voice in the wilderness asking
for an end to the sky and an empire
of dust, to spring from the
emperor of cries.

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