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Birds, startled, sent swiftly lifting, left, one would say, the old tree with no top of its own; it felt free now and so went back sifting its saps - half to grow its green palms, the other unsunned it let dwell. The chorus of death he will swell one day, thus from some still untold harms he'll find underneath safe repair. In porous cool sheets he will sink, forever unsunned wines will drink, forever life's breathing despair brush past - and forever no smart, for against her diaphonous veil and against the storm-tossed boat's torn sail green palms him forever will guard.
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