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The Ages

(near Alise-Sainte-Reine, France)

The hills in the distance,
Growing green beards slowly,
Surround themselves with fog
That drifts like cigar smoke.

Morning light, half shrouded,
Half revealed, awakens
My valley of brown and
Yellow, of twisted trees.

I picture an azure lake
Near the green hills, where
Fish frolic among reeds, where
Many travelers once journeyed.

Can the gentle morning
And its lazy haze
Hold time in limbo
Like light in a prism?

Can Vercingetorix gallop
Once again across these
Ravaged lands, this Alesia,
And summon ambition’s breath?

Yes. Yes. The Gaul is here.
He rides his charging steed and,
Through fog as white as
In a remembered dream, stirs

Strange emotions within
An unknown writer
In a valley.


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