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There’s nothing I don’t know
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I shall begin scouring the sky for signs
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The sky always
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Tell me, dear beauty of the dusk,
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Don’t let your golden wings suffer, let them taste the Beloved’s
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So much of any year is flammable,
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We share the sky, all of us, the whole world:
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For thee the labour of my studious ease
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the year turns into air
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I mean to say the rough-hewn edges of time and space,
