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Yesterday our days were melted in the sun, Bled of their life stuff and essences into Gutters and sewers; and being nothing More than a sun-streaked afternoon, We should call it the last sighting Of the shadow of a shadow of a cloud, Sweeping past the hillside and the snow, Trickling from the weathered rock and cracking, Forming torrent-streams on mountain slopes, And tearing with tiny fingers At the tree roots in the land Merging valleys...

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