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          By Sarah Sloat

          I like to think in the end
          there is no ice, no fire,
          only the sound of water.

          When day’s empty hand turns
          over to dusk, again I hear it
          as if it had moved closer--
          the waterfall throwing itself down
          like a rope, long,
          loosely wound, dropping
          to the foot of the mountain.

          Somewhere far from here,
          its stream is untangling.
          Somewhere it travels
          an unfinished road.

          Every night against the silence,
          I listen to it tumbling down.
          I let the sound empty me;
          I feel it lower me, dreamless to sleep.
          Every night it’s there
          in my ear, leaving,

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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007

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