ALL MY FRIENDS
Apple-picking time again, and all those
friends remembered are standing on a
bridge looking down on me. The fog,
again as thick as a ladled-soup, is now
slowly peeling back through dabs of
sun and light. It will all return, soon
enough, to the way it has been before.
-
Isn't that all History is anyway: All
our tales of war and conquest, rest
and peace? The King with the golden
chariot, the Queen with her secret
priest? Each of these - points of lore,
not light - take their place of shelves
already heavy-laden with myth.
-
Every story has its end; every end
has its new beginning, friend.
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