In the night I read a little, by the starlight
Gathering snippets from men on the side.
It is like gleaning gold grains left on the road
After the highway vehicles passed on them
All through the day, till the sun would sink
When the farmer would collect them in bags
With his twirled mustaches on orange fire.

I flit page to page, reading the first few lines.
My story is made quickly with inscrutable logic
That is close to reality, to the nature of things
They only make beginnings; I supply the story.

All stories are the same, the way they draw out
From the cave, through the wooded passages
To the depths of trees, where the drums beat
To reach a crescendo and a fire burns the night
As the stars disappear slowly in the grey skies
Making way for a new story, a new beginning.



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