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We soon realized we had to be coherent with what we spoke in the night air, shining words dropped in the thicket, fireflies that flickered on hill bushes. Our words have to cohere with history of our bodies and of our gone ancestors.

We have to think in essential assonance in nature of things, under a nothing- sky, of tiny insects that bore witness to our deeds ,their hum of filigreed wings in night air ,twigs that fell on our silence in the wood ,the birds that spoke on a dark morning in the grays of a golden dawn spawning.

We are not singing. But to our thoughts ,there is scheme, an unsought cadence to our actions, an alliteration of beginnings in five iambs of meters, some blank verse wrapped in scintillating speech rhythms.


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