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The Runner MAG
I sense a runner in the garden,
the snakes all coiled ’round the stems;
The sun has hid from wand’rin clouds
and I am wounded by the tongue.
There is a humming in the meadow,
a voice too crisp and cool for me.
The stars are crying up above us,
the Moon, she laughs so carefully.
The stardust lingers in the light beams;
can you see it next to me?
The runner’s gone so quietly now,
the wind wails, oh, so solemnly.
I’m left with snake skins in the meadow
and orange disks to end the day.
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