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Quiet Haze

In the quiet haze of the morning light of a day not yet come to pass
The hours poised like unborn babies in the womb
And myself engulfed in the mystery of what I know but cannot see
Rustling branches attach their whispers to my memories
Of things past and other mornings in the dapples shadows of the sycamore tree
With the ringing of the soundlessness echoing through tunnels in the mist
Pressing in upon my eardrums with all the weight of the future and past



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