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Our days are likened to the sea

and we to a reach of sands

who'd shore up into seven names

what the tides pull through our hands.

From the well of the uncreated

the four who command us have come

to the rim-wavering bubbled assembly

of divers who haven't a home;

the arch of the arrow of ages

has apexed with lightning our dome,

and mirrors by magic our movement

to worlds where our spirits would roam.


TTG, circa earliest 1970s copyright 2007 Elias Alias.



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