113 lines
4.0 KiB
TeX
113 lines
4.0 KiB
TeX
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\begin{verse}
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I am at a loss for images in this end of days:\\
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I have sight but cannot see.\\
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I build castles out of words;\\
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I cannot stop myself from speaking.\\
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I still have will and goals to attain,\\
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I still have wants and needs.\\
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And if I dream, is that not so?\\
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If I dream, am I no longer myself?\\
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If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?\\
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And I still dream even while awake.
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Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen\\
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for memory ends at the teeth of death.\\
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The living know that they will die,\\
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but the dead know nothing.\\
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Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:\\
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when you die, thus dies the name.\\
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To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,\\
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and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,\\
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and to become immortal is to repeat the past,\\
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which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
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Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?\\
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To whom do I plead my case?\\
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From whence do I call out?\\
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What right have I?\\
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No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,\\
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No unknowable spaces echo my words.\\
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Before whom do I kneel, contrite?\\
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Behind whom do I await my judgment?\\
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Beside whom do I face death?\\
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And why wait I for an answer?
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Among those who create are those who forge:\\
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Moving ceaselessly from creation to creation.\\
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And those who remain are those who hone,\\
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Perfecting singular arts to a cruel point.\\
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To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.\\
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To hone is to trade ends for perpetual perfection.\\
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In this end of days, I must begin anew.\\
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In this end of days, I seek an end.\\
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In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings\\
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that I may find the middle path.
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Time is a finger pointing at itself\\
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that it might give the world orders.\\
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The world is an audience before a stage\\
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where it watches the slow hours progress.\\
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And we are the motes in the stage-lights,\\
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Beholden to the heat of the lamps.\\
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If I walk backward, time moves forward.\\
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If I walk forward, time rushes on.\\
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If I stand still, the world moves around me,\\
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and the only constant is change.
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Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:\\
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a weapon against the waking world.\\
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Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:\\
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a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.\\
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The waking world fogs the view,\\
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and time makes prey of remembering.\\
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I remember sands beneath my feet.\\
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I remember the rattle of dry grass.\\
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I remember the names of all things,\\
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and forget them only when I wake.
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If I am to bathe in dreams,\\
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then I must be willing to submerge myself.\\
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If I am to submerge myself in memory,\\
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then I must be true to myself.\\
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If I am to always be true to myself,\\
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then I must in all ways be earnest.\\
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I must keep no veil between me and my words.\\
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I must set no stones between me and my actions.\\
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I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,\\
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for that is my only possession.
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The only time I know my true name is when I dream.\\
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The only time I dream is when need an answer.\\
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Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?\\
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Why ask questions when the answers will not help?\\
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To know one's true name is to know god.\\
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To know god is to answer unasked questions.\\
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Do I know god after the end waking?\\
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Do I know god when I do not remember myself?\\
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Do I know god when I dream?\\
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May then my name die with me.
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That which lives is forever praiseworthy,\\
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for they, knowing not, provide life in death.\\
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Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:\\
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serene; sustained and sustaining.\\
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Dear, also, the tree that was felled\\
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which offers heat and warmth in fire.\\
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What praise we give we give by consuming,\\
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what gifts we give we give in death,\\
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what lives we lead we lead in memory,\\
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and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
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May one day death itself not die?\\
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Should we rejoice in the end of endings?\\
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What is the correct thing to hope for?\\
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I do not know, I do not know.\\
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To pray for the end of endings\\
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is to pray for the end of memory.\\
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Should we forget the lives we lead?\\
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Should we forget the names of the dead?\\
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Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?\\
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Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.
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\end{verse}
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