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Laurance Wieder


There is no new thing in God's sight.
(The day, the moon, are new to us.)
Play a new song to the Lord,
Glass full enough to pass along
  Without a spill.
  Such ink made sky black,
Kissed stars through pinholes, caught
Their night tears in a jar, each drop an ocean.

"Let be there was"—the deep mind stamped
A pattern on the nothing of before
What was to be stood forth:
When time, one chord, struck there
  To now. Whatever
  One possesses
Is a gift from elsewhere.
Inspiration comes unbidden.
  One guessed
At what's inside our nature.
Truth stays hidden, feeds upon
  The question.
  Some try to steal
A march on death, drown fear in senses.
Some chosen can believe the soul is real.

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