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Poetry: History


We will have the sun:
it will not escape us.
We have taken arms, 
accumulating moments
like stones, to heap
against the light,
against the death of
the sun.  And, finally,
we will have it.
It will approach us,
feral and wary,
inelucatable as want,
and we will reach outward
to embrace the dying sun:

finally, we will have it,
we will have the sun.

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