Sometimes to the eye, the green shadow of the vinehas more substance than the vine itself, its leavesfluttering, translucent awnings in the mind.Tall morning shadows of children exaggeratethe future everywhere. Saints and reprobates alikecast shadows in the harsh light of the real.And memory is full of shadows, borrowing lightfrom contemplation to discern the faces and formsof all who have slipped away from our embrace.If in that last darkness there is light, jasper wallswill test our final substance. Perhaps the dead willknow us first by tracing the shadows that we cast.
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