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Poetry: History

 

Constantinople: 1000 CE


We are                     oversubtle.
Rich in distant pasts, we do not weave,
but admire with calm eyes
the intricacy of that work done before us.
We understand.   Let others    rejoice.
	

We are                  precise.
Soothed by the accumulated drift
of fallen lives, we do not dance, but
trace with grey washes the forms of
movement shaped before our time.
We are fatigued. The dancers are all
dead.

        We are            refined.
Purified of dross, we are aware of
anguish and delight, and those
irregularities crafted by human hands.
We do not wonder.   Let others   create.
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