The Everywhere’s keen glance of innocence,
Pretending history has never been,
With alps and orchards glittering through events,
Takes charge of the results that drape the bone:
And dawn, a fire that burnt the past, now comes
With the vast brow, with large clean hands of winds,
And turns upon our rumors and our drums
The look that cauterizes all the wounds.
And while the soldiery of ignorance
Drag smoking gunwheels up a sloped surmise,
And death from thickets of the present tense
Aims airplanes at the grandeur in those eyes,
We feel it on us, though our days are halved,
That cloudless gaze in which we are resolved.
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