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VI
And last generation of Istar,
pure generation,
born of bright stones
drawn from the crown
of a mountebank's hat,
whose goodness is ordinance,
precise, mathematical,
stripped of the elements
in the hearts fire
and the earth of the body,
in the water of blood
and the air's circumference:
You have passed through your temple
unharmed until now,
but now all of Istar
is strung on our words
on your own conceiving
as you pass from night
to awareness of night
to know that hatred is the calm of philosophers
that its price is forever
that it draws you through meteors
through winter's transfixion
through the blasted rose
through the shark's water
through the black compression of oceans
through rock
through magma
to yourself to an abscess of nothing
that you will recognize as nothing
that you will know is coming again and again
under the same rules.
So says the wind
in one tongue only,
pronounced in the movement
of cloud and water,
given voice by the rattle of leaves.
In the breath between waiting
and memory it stalks
elusive as light and promise
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