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The Witness Tree Among the corded groves I breathe with the earth a flux of kings, pilgrims, random fools in unhinged moonlight, a conjunct of stars and conflagrations of the wood. They call me sacred, ring me with garlands and offerings of corn, their burnt prayers fly in blackened parchment into the folded web of my branches. Wives bear sons to till the soil I break. Crops grow tall, it rains or it doesnąt. When it slants left, my shadow animates the primitive light where men and women couple -- the charred hours, whose ashes are sifted with gnarled limbs scooping out a darker age.
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