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Shakespeare's Monkeys

Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.

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Respite

When the river turns to ink,
oiled and slick,
glazed with a rose-pink,
syrup-thick
film of floating sky;
when the furious hours abate,
all artifice recedes,
all lies disintegrate
and silence stills the reeds.
What then can signify
under the careless stars
in this momentary quietus?
I heal my scars
by twilight's soft hiatus.

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