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And the wind is always your heartbeat,
is breathing remote
as the impassive stars,
and it moves from arrival to leaving,
leaving you one song only:
OH, THAT WAS THE LANGUAGE OF WIND,
you say, and WHAT DOES IT MEAN
TO THE LEAVES AND THE WATER,
always, WHAT DOES IT MEAN?
So it found me the first time
at the banks of Thon-Thalas,
at the last edge of river,
after the ministries
of inkwell and tutor,
after the damaged heirloom of days,
when the long thoughts burrow
and the childhood dances
on dark effacements of memory,
losing the self in the dance.
I remembered too much, unabled
for the sword and buckler,
for spellbook and moon,
for altar and incense,
for the birds' veiled grammar
and the seasons' alembic,
and always the river
was telling me telling me
COME, ASTRALAS, COME TO THE WATERS:
I AM THE LAST HOME, it was saying,
THE REFUGE OF DREAMS
AND THE SLEEP OF REASON.
COME TO MIDCURRENT, ASTRALAS.
I SHALL CARRY YOU PAST YOUR FAILURES.
COME TO MIDCURRENT AND OPEN YOUR ARMS
AS YOU FALL INTO SPINDRIFT,
TO MOVEMENT, TO LIGHT ON THE WATER,
TO WATER ITSELF, ENRAPTURED AND LOST
AS THE WHOLE WORLD VANISHES
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