A lot of people wonder why-
I just dropped out of sight.
I used to get around a lot...
And had a lot of fights-
I probably hurt some people
No doubt, a few have cried.
Some, maybe even wonder,
If I went away and died.
But I guess it may have been the years
It may have been the miles.
It may have been the heartaches-
That kind of crimped my style.
It may have been, I realized-
Life's far too short to waste...
It's meant to be enjoyed-
So I thought I'd stop and taste...
The pleasure of a sunset
On the broad West Texas plains.
The beauty of the turning leaves-
The fragrance when it rains.
The love of raising children...
Some peace instead of strife-
The comfort of a rocking chair,
In the twilight of my life.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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I poured a cup of coffee, while the rain was pouring down.
The cloudy sky a heavy hand, on our south Texas town.
I walked out on the front porch, and I leaned against the rail,
And for the thousandth time, I asked myself just where I�d failed.
Was it time I didn�t give you, as I spent it on the job-
Was it failure to consider, it was you my work did rob?
Or could it simply be that, when the push turned into shove-
We thought about it carefully, and then fell out of love?
I really cannot answer all the questions life does pose-
My mind is filled with sad regret; I crushed a lovely rose.
The tender flower of first love, so delicate and pure-
The harshness of reality, so seldom can endure.
I wonder why the hand of fate, in arbitrary choice-
Does twist the tapestry of lives, give pathos to their voice.
Sometimes it seems, that darts of doubt, like lightning from above-
Shatter hearts, and hearths, and homes, when we fall out of love.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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I've often tried to figure out-
Just where it all went wrong.
Just where I lost my vision;
And how I lost my song.
I used to be a dreamer.
My life was fantasy;
Oh, what an awful wakening,
To see as others see.
There was a girl who loved me.
To her I was a knight.
The agony I put her through...
Some wrongs you cannot right.
The saddest thing of all, I guess:
Is gazing into eyes,
That once were bright with laughter,
And wide with each surprise.
But now they're vacant windows-
So sad, and dead, and cold.
Gone the vibrancy of youth,
They're empty now and old.
Sometimes I'd like to find the grave,
Where that sweet soul was laid.
And lay down there, myself, and die,
And mark the ledger "Paid"!
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Every drop of ink I use-
Is like a drop of blood�
A bit of essence of myself-
A seeming, endless flood.
Revealing secrets unconfessed-
Obligations yet unmet�
A glimpse into my inner parts�
Some don�t care, and most forget.
A glimpse of what I might have been-
And many things I never was..
And yet I write, and write again..
Oh, tell me.. is there not a cause?
A cause! Why yes! To carve our names
Like children do on restroom walls-
Desiring but to leave a trace�
In life� before the Shadow calls.
Yet I am less, the more I write�
With loss of essence, we all shrink�
As blood from wrists, which have been slashed
We die with every drop of ink.
�2008, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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I think of time I've wasted,
In the twilight of my years.
The pleasures I have tasted,
Often mingled with my tears.
I'd like to roll out of my bedroll,
On a frosty Rocky morn,
Up among the high sierras-
Where the rivers all are born.
There's a jay who's loudly scolding-
My trespasses in his realm,
Pretty soon I will be leaving,
This high meadow all to him.
There's a track down on the lakeshore,
Has to be a mountain lion,
She was hunting in the darkness,
Seeking breakfast for her scion.
While up here in the mountains-
Something turns my thoughts to God,
Who created all this beauty-
Where few men have ever trod.
Last night a mountain sunset-
Painted all the western sky,
Overcome by all the beauty,
I could only sit and cry.
The Aurora Borealis-
Hung her curtains of pure light-
Rippling in the icy stillness,
What an awe-inspiring sight.
In a way I'd like to die here,
Let the earth encase my bones,
With God's beauty all around me,
I could never feel alone.
�2003, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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You know, I just turned fifty-
I know that isn't OLD.
There are far more years behind me,
Than the time I've left can hold.
So I spend more time in thinking,
And less time on the run...
The strange thing I am finding,
Is I get a lot more done.
Does wisdom come with all the miles?
Or with the sudden stops?
Or leather worn out on the road,
Or holes in these old socks?
The time I cursed the mountains-
And the wild and strange terrain.
I'd give a million dollars,
Just to do it all again.
This time I'd stop and think about-
The beauty I have seen,
Pull off my boots and soak my feet,
In some cold, mountain stream.
Drink that extra cup of coffee,
Spend more time with family...
Think more about my loved ones,
And a whole lot less of me.
I'd stay on as a cowboy-
Choose a life out on the range.
Though circumstances alter-
In your heart you never change.
�2003, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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I'd like to think I'm wiser,
Than I was when I was young.
And slower now to speak my mind-
And loose my sharp-edged tongue...
My friends and my companions-
Are resting in the ground,
And I can't help but wonder,
Just why I'm still around?
I'm still a drifting cowboy-
At least in heart and mind.
With a trail of precious memories,
Of things I've left behind.
My cowboy friends of yesteryear,
Some broncs I rode and loved.
The silver, Arizona skies-
Still somehow are above.
The canyons, and the deserts-
The black, star-studded sky...
Like diamonds set in velvet,
You could touch them, should you try.
So now I have my camera,
To catch and hold each scene-
The sandstorms, and the whirlwinds,
The mountain lake, serene.
Wiser? I'm not certain-
But older, that's a fact.
No longer quick to ball my fists-
I've learned to use some tact.
Wiser? I can't tell you-
But I savor every day...
Each pleasure ere it's passing,
Every friend along the way...
Wisdom? Just what is it?
I think it could be termed-
Ability to use in life,
The things that you have learned.
�2003, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Maybe I'm too morbid,
Or so I have been told.
And is it a fixation...
This thing with growing old?
While I am no longer young-
Maybe I have spurned,
The gain that comes with aging,
The wisdom I have learned.
I've found that I am mortal-
And mortal bones can break.
There are some things I will not do,
Some risks I will not take.
I've learned to slow my pace a bit,
And stop and smell the flowers.
That minutes spent to contemplate,
May save me wasted hours.
I've learned that looks don't make a man,
Much less his counterpart.
The only treasure one can keep,
Is lodged deep in his heart.
That memories are precious,
And far outlast our friends...
And memories stay with us-
While often romance ends.
Perhaps I ought to be content,
That I have lived so long.
Forget the years and where they went,
And sing a sweeter song.
Perhaps my body's given-
All it had to give...
And in the time that I have left,
I'll use it well and live.
�2002, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Love with you would be a challenge-
Always "tete a tete".
Jab and cover, thrust and parry,
Every time we meet.
Word games, yes, and mental snares-
To trap unwary foes.
Destruction in our every coupling
Adding to our woes.
Till at last, the love we cherished,
would turn into hate.
And the things we'd sought had perished,
We'd realize too late!
Once again, our lonely vigil-
Like some brooding mage...
Would continue through life's twilight,
As we sit and age.
So the wanderer, salutes thee-
Maiden, in thy web...
I must not tarry til the morning,
Lest my life span ebb
Every second one is granted-
Upon the dial of life...
Must be cherished, and enjoyed,
Not be spent in strife.
Wilt thou take my hand in parting?
Spare me once a dance?
Let us drink to love now vanished,
Love that never stood a chance.
�2002, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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How do you take your coffee?
Or would you prefer tea?
I'm glad you finally found the time,
To sit and talk with me.
I may not be attractive...
And I'm no longer young;
But I've long felt you had a hand,
The time the stars were hung.
When we were in our twenties,
We were guided by our eyes.
We wanted everything we saw,
At last we realize...
The things that are important,
In people, prose, or art...
Are not the ones which catch the eye,
But those that touch the heart.
I've long been drawn by something,
I could not put in words.
It dwelt in everything you said,
In everything I heard.
Perhaps the chance for us is gone-
But now at last I find...
The things about you that I love:
Your heart, your soul, your mind.
So now I'll close my missal,
Though doing so is hard...
Here's wishing to you all my best,
And fondest of regards.
�2002, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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You say that I intrigue you;
I'm flattered, I must say.
I also find I'm drawn to you,
In some peculiar way...
For I am so much older,
And bound by many things,
And yet each time I see your name,
The heart inside me sings.
I must say, you're attractive-
There's more to love than looks.
I fear that I'm a realist,
Not mesmerized by books.
Romance is a tawdry word,
To mask the game of sin...
For beauty on the outside,
Oft masks the filth within.
You cannot know the things I've seen
Nor could I ever tell,
The pathways that I've walked in life,
The glimpse I've had of Hell.
I've nothing I can offer-
Besides poetic art...
Perhaps you'll take this gift from me,
I offer thee, my heart.
So take it, treat it tenderly,
And hang it on the wall.
And won't you wipe it gently,
When you see its teardrops fall?
Perhaps this poem is crazy,
Yet I believe it's true.
It's all I have to offer,
Little friend, it is for you.
�2002, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Watch me as I'm passing,
You'll see me wave goodbye.
Maybe I won't make it,
But at least I have to try.
I can't see life without you,
You have always been a part,
Of every dream I've ever had,
And each beat of my heart.
But, darling, something's missing,
No matter how we try.
Somewhere in the passing time,
We somehow let love die.
Until, now, we've only embers,
Of what once was so aflame,
And passion fades to bleakness,
As we play the romance game.
So maybe you will miss me,
As I am missing you...
Perhaps the landscapes of our minds,
May be a bluer, blue.
So here's my best, you write the rest,
As we go on alone-
And on the canvas of our lives,
Dear, you can paint me...gone.
�2002, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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I sit here at your bedside,
Watch the moonlight on your face,
The paths carved in your makeup-
Where the teardrops left their trace�
I want so much to hold you,
And to tell you how I feel-
Inform you of my presence-
But, alas, it is unreal.
We really should have married-
Our love was plain to see.
So readily apparent-
To every one but me�
I'd laugh each time you told me-
Of your love, I'd make a joke.
Unable to confide in you-
It's all gone up in smoke.
I was flying out of Boise-
Fighting fires in Idaho�
And I took too many chances,
Everybody told me so.
You pleaded with me to slow down,
Not take the foolish risks-
I'd smile and make some light remark-
Then hush you with a kiss.
A year ago last Tuesday-
A major forest fire�
The winds blew hard and fitful,
The flames kept raging higher.
Al and I were trying hard-
And falling way behind,
When a bunch of jumper's were cut off-
Behind a flaming line.
"Big Al" took in the first drop-
And I built on his lead-
The wind was blowing harder-
And gusting in the trees.
We had to make our drops too low-
My engine was aflame-
The fire got to my fuel tank-
I went calling out your name.
But I'll never really leave you-
I sit with you each night.
When you weep upon my photograph�
And you die a bit inside.
I told you, all too often-
In those other, better days�
You are my girl, you'll always be-
I'll be with you always.
�2002, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The truth, the dreadful truth you see-
Is what we tell ourselves-
Destroying all our vanity-
To place it on a shelf.
To see ourselves, just as we are-
A gift? a curse? who knows?
Honesty with self goes far-
Like fragrance with a rose.
While one may never turn and run
Or decline from a fight-
True courage is to dare to do
The thing one knows is right.
To, self abase, if it will stand
Good in another's stead.
And letting others go before-
When we would get ahead.
I fear to face the man I shave
Facade and web of lies-
In truth I see a coward there
When looking in his eyes.
Afraid to fight? ah, foolish one-
I fear to walk away.
For fear that one will see the fact
I'm cursed with feet of clay.
Afraid to speak my piece, you think?
I bow my head and weep-
That I don't have the fortitude
At times my piece to keep!
While others think, that they perceive
Nobility and such-
I fear I see hypocrisy-
And fear it very much.
While others look, and they suppose
That I am quite the man-
I know that I've a failure been
Since first that I began.
A craven? Ah, the dreadful shame
Much rather one would die.
Of all the cowards I have known
The worst by far, is I.
�2002, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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All the world's a stage-
Is what Sir William said,
I guess that every actor
Approaches it with dread.
The poet like the actor-
To audience does play...
Will they applaud his efforts?
Or will they say him, "Nay!"?
To touch the hearts of fickle fans-
Takes more than merely skill.
For one must play to moods you know?
And vagaries of will.
For what, one time, will draw applause
The next time gets a yawn-
Oh, what to do? Oh, what to say?
Dilemma lingers on.
Dost seem that one could specialize
In love, or ode, or prose-
Describe the grace of yonder maid-
The smell of yonder rose...
Perhaps I'd best be versatile-
Like artiste with a brush-
Instead of merely being me-
'Tis better if I'm us.
Sometime my heart is far afield-
In foreign land and clime-
Perusing long dead warriors tales
In far and distant time.
At other times I woo some lass-
In shady, summer bower-
And toast her beauty with my words
Bestow upon her flowers.
And yet at other times you know
My thoughts go drifting back-
Mistakes I've made, friends I've known
Along life's weary track.
Ah, what to write? a question that-
And who can really say?
For what might hit the spot tonight-
The morning finds blase'.
�2002, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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I am a debtor, so are you -
To spread what light we have,
In every thing we say and do-
In every thing I am.
We dwell within a world today-
Where many hearts are dark
To knowledge, art, the gift of words
We must needs stir a spark.
"But! no one cares," some do protest
They care not for our work-
We still must strive to do our best-
Our duty not to shirk.
For media, computer games,
Have robbed the youth today
Entrancing them the books to shun
And wasting time away.
For time, most precious of our gifts
And minds...our great resource-
Are daily wasted in our land-
Which leaves US no recourse.
To give our all to capture hearts
With literary skills-
And stir a hunger for the arts-
Manipulate their wills.
You ask me, "Why? tis not my fault-
The world is not my liege-
To those with gifts, as we possess
There is Noblesse Oblige.
�2001, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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"Oh, for a thousand
tongues to sing..."
Or words to that effect-
How well I understand that wish
When striving to perfect-
The thoughts which all unbidden come
And I would write them down-
They come so easy to the tongue-
It seems my pen is bound.
I long to paint a picture-
Of lonely desert land-
And it as virginal today
As from Creation's hand.
Or tell the grace and symmetry
Of some great mountain lion-
Who makes a kill and carries back
The bounty to it's scion.
Depict the dreaminess of youth-
When all the world is roses-
Ere time and tragedy the truth
Which comes with life, discloses.-
Or paint a tapestry of love-
Faithful and unyielding-
Ever bearing precious fruit-
And from all heartache shielding.
The beauty of the golden rays
Of summer's healing sun.
Nobility of venered age-
Whose race is nearly run.
Ah, for a thousand tongues- but nay
I'd rather have the pen-
Which reads the mind, and delves the heart
And writes what lies within.
�2001, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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With every single breath I draw-
And every beat of heart...
I long to hold you one more time,
And hate that we're apart.
I think of when the world stood still
And we were there together,
And made our foolish frantic vows-
"Eternity"! "forever"!
Passions flamed, and visions danced
Of Camelot, and all-
We were equally entranced,
By passions were enthralled.
And yet the stolid wheel of time,
Does on its journey roll-
And fate doth write our destinies-
Upon its ancient scroll.
And so it is, and so it goes-
But still I must confess,
I silently do breathe your name,
With every single breath.
�2001, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you should ask me what I want-
About my hearts desire....
Twould be to share with all the world
What sets my heart afire.
Twould be to tell the dreams of mine
Which dwell within my soul-
Of tropic island paradise-
And arctic beauty cold.
Of depths of space, expanse of land-
A million unnamed stars-
The often spoke of Milky Way-
And Jupiter and Mars.
The beauty of an island dawn-
The sea give birth to sun-
The lovely desert evening-
When day is nearly done.
The beauty of a maidens face
When once she falls in love-
Nobility of human race-
Which art and music proves.
The darker side of human woes-
The heartache and the loss.
Of those who "leap before they look"
And never count the cost.
If I could do what e'er I want-
I'd feign your heart inspire-
Communicate, emotions stir-
The Poet's one desire.
�2001, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Words...unfit, unsuited words
Can never possibly convey-
The passions pounding in our hearts-
Nor frame the things we wish to say.
Words can never scale the heights-
Nor span the gulf between the two,
Nor form a union of the soul-
From what we are and what we do.
Words are tinsel on a tree-
Tawdry, false and valueless-
Words which cut you like a knife-
In the next breath your soul caress.
Words the tools of Poet's trade-
May paint a canvas, broad and fair-
Yet fail to beauty, justice do-
And is this not Poet's despair
�2001, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A poet cannot help but write-
But oh, so hard to know,
The subject, meter, count of words
In which his poem should go.
Yet in his soul, the flame doth burn
To share those words of rhyme-
And so he takes his pen in hand-
And tries time after time.
Frustrated artist, he or she-
When pouring out their soul
Receive no single accolade
As on the Archives roll.
Again we take our pen in hand-
And wonder in dismay-
Why works which we esteem so high-
From others get a "Nay."
Why does it seem that pathos grim
Does claim a brighter hour-
That words of love and pleasure
Which blossom like a flower.
And why do tales of cruel deceit
Outweigh the pleasant thought?
For when our hearts are light and gay-
It seems we write for naught.
�2001, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I stop and gaze about me, at all the shattered lives-
And pain and sorrow round me, on which the poet thrives.
Of broken hearted lovers, lost souls, and all the rest...
It seems the one who hurts the worst, is he who writes the best.
I see the wraiths about me, with diff'rent shades of blues-
They're hell bent for destruction, as each one pays his dues.
To love and lose begins it, and starts you down the road-
To write successful poetry, one must needs bear a load.
A load of grief, for certain; a load of guilt perchance-
The roads of life we travel, do often twist and branch.
Each foolish, wrong decision, lends impetus to those
Who'd write to thrill a vulgar crowd, with all their pain and woes.
For like the crowds of Romans, who cheered the Christian's death
The world doth gloat on sorrow, the poet's very breath.
To write profane doth cast a stain, on every one of us
For poetry is to our ilk, almost a sacred trust.
If I would be remembered, I'd hope that it will be-
As one who with his words and rhyme, could paint a tapestry.
As one whose words could take and bend, the very human mind
And with his words the broken mend, and sooth all human kind.
�2001, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Like ships upon the trackless sea-
We often meet and pass.
Flotsam on the sea of life...
We never touch, alas!
Like hails across a hopeless void-
We touch each others heart...
With words wrung out by passions,
And our poetic art.
What is poetry you ask?
Why, friend, it's drops of blood
Drawn from a wounded spirit-
A cascade, yea, a flood-
To flow unhindered to the sea,
As we gasp out our pain.
Determined we'll be heard this once-
If never heard again.
Grafitti down the halls of time-
Like children in the dark-
Determined that our memory lives...
We have to make our mark!
So write! so speak! let shine your light!
Words graven as in stone-
Like fireflies on a moonless night...
We simply must..."Write On"!
�2000, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The wretched poet sits and sighs-
And feels onset of his demise,
The words won't come, the thoughts are gone
What can he do but sit and moan?
Oh, what to write? What to say?
And would it help? Perchance to pray?
Perhaps to walk a country mile-
Might energize and make him smile...
And write with joyous lilt and rhyme
Inspired by nature one more time.
Or maybe thumb through photographs
And let his thoughts drift to the past?
Or turn again to well stocked shelves
And into classics deeply delve-
Perusing those who's occupation
Consists of writing inspiration?
Ah, weary brain, and bloodshot eyes-
I guess you may as well to rise,
And totter off and go to bed,
No verse remains within your head.
�2000, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Silent figures in the rain,
It seems so very strange
Snow, or ice, or summer heat
Expressions never change.
Three young men who'll never age
These three will never fall
Unlike those men they represent
Names graven on the "Wall".
Young, those lives we threw away
Like wheat before the scythe
Upon a foreign altar slain
Ah, what a dreadful price.
Three young men, two white, one black
Returning from patrol-
Now only elements attack
Those names upon the roll.
What's to show for blood they shed-
For most no teardrops fall-
Unknown, unsung, all but forgot-
Those men upon the Wall!
The "Wall", how fitting is the black-
Cold marble of its face-
And epitaph, lives thrown away,
Their treatment, a disgrace.
�2000, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Mirror polished cutting edge-
Pure Damascus steel...
Balanced like a living thing
To the warrior's feel.
Wrought for just one purpose
To take a human life-
Forged in flame, and tempered, too
A sword! a fighting knife!
Hilt of brass to stop the blade
Protect the warrior's grip-
Sharkskin molded to the hilt
So grasp's will never slip.
Epitome of cutler's art-
It bears the Sheffield name-
The process of it's forming?
Why, it was forged in flame!
I'm told that I'm a hard, hard man-
And hard to be entreated-
And prone to deal to others
The measure I am meted.
Callused? that's another word-
That's often been applied;
I'm told I have a heart of stone
That my emotions died...
I learned within the forge of life
Of misery and shame-
And like that sword, I guess that
I am also forged in flame.
Softness found and then removed
By trials through out the years-
A heart which flamed with passion
Was quenched in briny tears.
I guess to start, you'd say my heart
And sword were much the same-
Tempered by the battle's heat
We both were forged in flame!
�1999, John R. Yaws
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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