A Debate with Mnemosyne

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And so to conclude, I say to you
this is the finest memory one can have:
A dry pasture scattered with dead grass and manure,
small houses in the background, swallowed up by farmland,
all under a clear blue sky and a bright, shining sun which
beats down on the farmers neck, whose arms are wrapped around
a farming tool,
from across the pasture
a cow is looking up into the sun,
and at the edge of the farmland, there is an old tire,
dusty from the pasture, which will never move, nor
leave this open land.





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