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To Helen Lambert's previous piece
Shahariel: Awaiting the Sun
strangely the thought hovers, lost
in the nightmare zone
between dreamtime and dawn
the nexus of a whirling
storm, battling spin of ideas
wondering, and whim
here it is quiet, there is no
fight and far-flung grief
in this pale eye
the air settles, cool around my throat
a song of winter sky, white
swirling mists of morning clouds
I find a ring of burning stars
but it is not written
that time shall pass me by
drifting, that cannot drift
in an infinity of moments
I await the break of day
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