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It seems as if someone set me here as a reminder
and then forgot everything. Was it you, you?
Does my hair grow from undiminishing thought?
I seem to consist of glimpses and discomforts.

I am still turned toward that spot on mind's horizon
where you went out, shutting behind you
the door that cast the one beam of light.
Something else has got to come back through, soon.

Is it true, prince, what I thought just now:
that time is just like a mud covering
flaking off a wall of pure gold?

Then eternity — must be that fresco in Novgorod,
a patch of saint, the rest so clearly palpable
behind the veil of having been eaten away.

      — Esther Cameron