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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree

Stories and Visions

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The door

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In dreams, I stood behind a wondrous door;
ajar, it just revealed a crack of light.
Though slender, this was nonetheless so bright
my eyes could not have coped with any more.
For in the little picture, like a line -
the rest, a blissful mystery to me -
there lay the fairest garden eyes could see,
beneath a sky forever fair and fine.
My heart desired to see the rest revealed,
and yet, the door swung only in, not out;
no matter how I shoved, or tried to shout,
the walls pressed hard; the back and sides were sealed.
For all I knew, my life might pass me by;
that garden would not age - but I would die.


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