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No. 67 (July 1969)
– 55 –


I came to the crest of hell
and turned about
and my home was a cloud.
At his peak was the wave
of the sea carrying me away
to a place of darkness.

Since I must go, and I must
mourn, come night, with
darkness, while I write.

The things which I have seen
I now can see no more,
but below the given grass
and above the vaulted sky.
Into the living darkness of
waking dreams
where there is neither
sense of life nor joys,

To watch the storm, and hear
the sky
give all our almanac the lie,
to shake with cold, and see the plains
in Autumn drown with wintry rains,
thus I spent my
last moments here.

My element
should be a clod,
and not a man.

J. Hukatai