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The Water Song

My hands grasp luminous folds of reality
and pull the water through

drink of sweet wine from golden chalices
and love your eagle's destiny.
my eyes grow weary of the patriarchal child
the father of thread
weaving tapestries in pyramids of deception,
pyramids of truth.

There are laminated boars
that grow like ants in a childrens book
through a tinted glass of rosy red.

You're struggling to see through a door
without opening it.

by Andrew Hussey

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