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True words:
birthed from the union
of silence and vision.

Without a source in silence,
these poems are orphans;
without vision, victims.

Twenty-six sentinels dozing on the border of Hush:
here snow falls thick on snow where eyes and fingers never go.
Across a shuttle of branches or on the White Owl’s ray,
comes the dim message they await. Stirrings from
pure unguarded land wake them. They stand up
in order. Now they march farther along
the mute line, the blank border.