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Nearing the end of a winding road,
Wizened eyes trace the infinite
Arc of the horizon.
Out, out, out…

There, far across a veridian sea –
Infinite fields pocked with islands of trees –
The evening sun sows its endless
Garden of persimmon and lavender.

This light, this breath
And all that came along with them;
These, but dimestore tokens;
Roadside souvenirs
Of faraway places
A soul once knew too well.

It is only in passing
That one might survive
Such a wonderful, terrible place;
For surely if he stayed too long,
He would go blind to all its splendor.

One last, longing look, then
Gnarled hands grip tightly into fists
As a withered voice cries out,
“Great slumber, cast open your doors!”

A traveler seeks refuge.

(copyright © 2008, christian fauchald)