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There was a poet who had written one
fine work of art but nothing else beyond.
Try as he might, no further poems came,
no inspiration opened up the fond
sky of the soul to filter through his pen.
Think of the paper and the ink he’d spend
as he contrived in heightening despair
to recreate that momentary flair.

Nothing arrived — the muse was mystery.
What could he do? He struggled to forgive,
tortured his conscience, cleansed its history;
and every night, pretending to relive
that first, jardinian glimpse of the divine,
rewrote his only poem, over and over again …

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