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In clay from ancient times,
our tread has deepened, faded,
graded its declines, those patterns of our gait
translate the size and height, our stance.

We rise to walk upright,
seize weapons of the hand and mind,
our troubles multiply,
our brains try hard to understand.

Have we, do we e'er progress?
We think it so; we know;
and still we make the same mistakes
that man made eons ago.

Editing stage: 


Well asked question...............stan

... but this poem needs no help. Poignant and lovely to "listen" to. wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Coming from you Wesley, thank you,
I know you prize the sound of a poem;
as when I read your poems that aspect
appears so very important.

The music of language,
the lilt, the tilt, the silt
eroded through the years,
encoded in our minds,
replayed again, again,
an ever changing game.


"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

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