Man carrying his horse

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The river of time rushed by in the terracotta sun
The black tin house, with a tar roof, stands there alone

Constructed in the fields of construction
Ordered in the valley of order

My hands on the tarry wall in the bomb blast
My old age in a bucket of tar

Everything in its place like for an army on a schedule
Every life like a pin stuck in a calendar of war

Then this vision of a man carrying his horse
In silver and gold light along the tow path outside

Passing by like a spectre, like a revelation
Into the spiritual sun of existence

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