Nothing is pure that has not fallen. Be an apple petal on a stream, a pale seed in the mother-brown furrow, a spark of the iron hammer on the lock of the prison door. Be lamb's blood on the lintel, and the silent footstep of a slave escaping in haste at night. If you cannot stay for one hour, stay for one moment and be whole. Nothing crushed in these green shadows fails to rise. Be the glut of
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