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A shrouded, silenced forest, a skyless night, a clearing dimly illuminated by a sleeping west wind -- and a poet -- seated astride a wooden loom. And from that moving wheel: silver threads of time and life, a symphony of vines moving as though alive, intertwining as though on a trellis, closing to form an inescapable net of melancholy of joy of pain. And with each note, no matter whether pleasure or hurt, a tear falls -- a single drop rolling from cheek to ground, there forming a puddle wherein its reason: A lake of human memory, the sum and all inclusive, whose steep banks even the most stalwart cannot climb; whose waters are a calm and melancholic mixture of joy and disappointment.
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