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Oh continental meadow, oh light

of my youth.  Can’t they make you

strung, like streamers across the

sky, where humidity can take

it’s hold of you and illuminate you.

And when lighted, will you become

real, and by a beach?  Will you become

the sea at noon?  Or dawn in the summer?

Oh continent, will you become the

maiden Joan, before she  killed, before

she was visited by the haunting dead?

Oh sword of tongues, oh times of

days, oh water and light.  Will

you become nothing and then

become something and then

will you call us by name and let

us try again?

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