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by Dieu

With your heart tethered to the stars
you fly west with the night.
Unspeakable memories ache within you:
Your bones a map of cracks.

But then you remember that a
soldier’s daughter never cries.

Oh, father

Oh, Teacher Man.

What was it you once said;
that life is more than
a journey without maps
or big questions
or even the lottery-
a simple game of chance,
but one that is full of
necessary journeys
with always the
sense of an ending.

Those wonder boys in the
chronicles of our youth were
the shock of the new,
although they may have offered you
glimpses of the moon.

Every person has at least 32 Stories to tell,
secrets untold
which are for them, the only
known world.

The man on the street corner pulling
a shopping cart-is he
The Prophet?

I understand now that
Ordinary people must be praised.
If fame is in the hands of the people,

then we must clap for them.

Let us now praise them.
Let us now praise famous men.

If we are brothers and sisters looking through
the same soul,
then call me by your name,
for they are one and the same.

In the last battle,
all that remains
are impressions:

Memories played out
in our age of innocence,
stardust for those
eleven kinds of loneliness.

In the end,
we are all going solo,
each of us a Danny, the
Champion of the World.

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