A hundred miles
from wall to wall.
An eternity and a half of vigils
blanker than snow.
Tons of words
old as the tracks
of a platypus in the sand.
A hundred books we didn't write.
A hundred pyramids we didn't build.
Sweepings
Dust.
Bitter
as the beginning of the world.
Believe me when I say
it was beautiful
MIROSLAV HOLUB (1923-98)
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