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With what stillness at last. You appear in the valley. Your first sunlight reaching down. To touch the tips of a few. High leaves that do not stir. As though they had not noticed. And did not know you at all. Then the voice of a dove calls. From far away in itself. To the hush of the morning. So this is the sound of you. Here and now whether or not. Anyone hears it this is. Where we have come with our age. Our knowledge such as it is. And our hopes such as they are.

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