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| The palm at the end of the mind, |
| Beyond the last thought, rises |
| In the bronze decor. |
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| A gold-feathered bird |
| Sings in the palm, without human meaning, |
| Without human feeling, a foreign song. |
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| You know then that it is not the reason |
| That makes us happy or unhappy. |
| The bird sings. Its feathers shine. |
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| The palm stands on the edge of space. |
| The wind moves slowly in the branches. |
| The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down. |
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