It
was backwards and forwards
And
what was before . . .
With
what would come afterwards
And
the revealing of mysteries
In
retelling my stories . . .
On
a calm day the sea stretches on forever
Fields
of ripe wheat float in the heat
Then
dream onwards even through the night:
There
is no end to the waking path I tread
Facing
forwards or backwards the vista is new
*
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