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morning chilled breath
the birds are talking
the ice is waiting

this sky the chalk silver
horse that stands
and the hundred silence
miles of endurance

dreamland marionette
tap heel light on strings
sit and tell
the gruelling past
packed in trunks of histories

there are
motions of faces
fixed in perceptions
like doorshadowed

and paces of hunger
scratch prayer messages
on earthen dust page

Editing stage: 


I might be wrong but this gives the sense of a ride somewhere and the rider deep in thought of past days and the life led. Takes me back to what pioneers would feel how the ancestors might look back and also how we feel all alone on a horse with the peace and quiet of morning. I'd perhaps drop the 's' off perceptions but there is not much roughness in this.

"The perfect woman perpetrates literature as she does a small sin: as an experiment, in passing, to see if anybody notices it - and to makes sure that somebody does." - Nietzsche

the intimacies of history
and travel

whom one walks with
or for or towards
its the manner of learning

It was a blur of looking back
sometimes the light is so bright
sometimes like a stage
only the periphery is lit

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