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Rituals Of The Real

They approach and they retreat.

Here and in the distance.

On this hill, the enduring pattern

Can be witnessed…

The sights and sounds of those

Preceding and ensuing.


There is the lament that right here

I am unable to remain.

Duty taps gently,

I cannot ignore.

Yet fortune lies in the

Prospect of a return.


Those existing in eons before,

Could seldom gaze in awe.

Or sometimes even reach this site,

Where I now shiver and

Reflect in twilight.


Arising now, do I,

Taking one last look.

Aware that I am not

Departing for good.


Walking away, I am but

A small figure.

I reflect on rituals that

Both frighten and nurture.

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