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WHY IS THERE ANYTHING AT ALL? VERSION TWO
By Quentin Smith
Again the door through I pass,
From silent clouds and empty fields
From the myriad of bordering branches
That have curled into a question mark
Pointing at thousands of distant black mirrors
That have disclosed nothing again.
Now green refracting walls again,
And that same strange question,
The same strange flame
Burning through my rooms,
The rooms behind my lonely horizon eyes
Tomorrow I will return to my outpost
At the edge of the night
And watch in wonder the distant, angled mirrors
As they flash the faint mysteries
About what is forever beyond
The horizon.
Written 1972 and 2002 |