and where do you suppose this place you speak of is
beyond the wars of other countries
and their exiles without shoes
some who've traveled whole continents
counting off miles by the thousands
before they can find any trace of silence
curtains billow in an open window
you can still hear
the sea outside the abandoned village
a sound
like old men sleeping in the afternoon
with no one to wake them
the sky among shadows
of bells in a gleaming tower
with no one to sound them
here and there amidst the flies
that linger long on clods of clay
flutter still the unnamed sleeves
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