Do I think they got out?
Of course I do, I mean
I have stepped on the path
past the flowered Gate,
I have tasted the fruit
that never dies,
with a tongue that does not want.
Today, I offer the annals of my mind, every writ,
and the stoic sinew of me
that has run a thousand miles
through a hundred seasons,
to the Watcher.
As if they were yours to offer,
whisper the pines
in the sharp April breeze.
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