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A Man Searches the Galaxy

A hill of green, dark grass will suffice.

He stands and stares,

with no telescope. What he seeks

cannot be seen through a glass lens,

or a book, or even a heart, open.

He utters words to a song,

much-remembered, but without music.

Overhead, and all around, the Milky Way

sure and subtle in its address,

makes itself plain, pure, and bright.

It would suffice, if only for the nameless wonder

that intrudes, every night, upon sleep,

and upon waking, every morning.

If only there would come solace

in one single, darkening sun.

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