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Los Despojos del Sol, Ananda Segunda


 On its knees the Tree.
I fall on my eyes: I keep myself company:
I only have paths.
The light cries out: "I am now blind!"
Dusty, dissolute anxiety
breeds fresh meanings.
The feet of heaven stumble over my feet.
Ancient chiaroscuro:
paths and paths and not one
footprint. Never the world.