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WHY IS THERE ANYTHING AT ALL RATHER THAN NOTHINGNESS
By Quentin Smith
Again the door through I pass
From the branches and clouds of silver nighttime;
Where the distant black mirrors
Have disclosed nothing again.
Now green white walls of light again
And that same strange question again,
The same strange flame,
That burns,
Burning through my rooms,
The rooms behind my lonely horizon eyes.
Written 1972 and 2002 |