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Thoughts
keep echoing in my mind, Over
again and persistently. Yet
quietly, like a cow lowing From
a distant hilltop. What
are these echoes, And
what do they symbolize? Are
they of good tidings? Nay.
Rather, of what doom Do
they precede? Curiosity
was once attributed To
feline destruction, But
does this fate girdle us all, As
walls encompass a village? Do
ersatz suns spawning Artificial
greenery Signify
our extinguishment? What
is our destiny? Yet,
until the gears are worn down The
dark cloud will remain Covering
this gelid world. But
even so, a glimpse will be caught Of
the eye of this storm. Yet,
until the ninth hour, What
can be done But
to plod monotonously, And
to listen to the echos
2 Dec 1985
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