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Poetry: History



They come, and they go,
and, when they have gone,
the rain washes the land
of their tracks, and
their memory.

The trees grow firm, and
close together.  Between,
intricate brush, or mossy rock,
inviting, and entangling.

They come, mounted, on foot,
in wagons, intent on conquest.
The trees part, the paths
open.  Armies thrust and groan:
the rain returns with the night.

In the morning, they go,
and, when they are gone,
the mosses sleep, the trees
enfold, the rain washes
the land.
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