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Enkomputiligis Don HARLOW |
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Silence is strictly rationed in the city. In the long line of hours I wait my turn Until the car-horn batteries dwindle with dusk, The rock-song beat finally sleeps, exhausted, And last of all, insomniac televisions Fall sightless into early morning beds. In that hoarded hour I know you, One Whose shattered splendor surrounds me through the day. I cannot see you in a thousand mirrors! I have sought you wandering distant groves, My first and always love among the mists, But there I was a stranger at your door. In the night the electric lie never knows, I weave a web of faerie in stucco death, And call you silently to my rude temple. Then, if no breath of profane clatter stirs, You may consent to know my exile home And wander with me through a hope of stars. |