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Fifty-seven's not afraid of
silence,
In which the self can take a well-earned breath.
For her there is no urgency to time,
There being an eternity till death.
Years are but the borders of remembrance.
So does she find the doorway to her
presence,
Entrance to which needs no shibboleth,
Visiting an oft-neglected shrine.
Even as she walks her length and breadth,
Not moving she beholds her radiance. |
