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Written by: W S Merwin | Biography
For Galway Kinnell

The rust a little pile of western color lies
At the end of its travels 
Our instrument no longer.

Those who believe
In death have their worship cut out for them.
As for myself we

An old
Scar of light our trumpet 

Pilgrims with thorns
To the eye of the cold
Under flags made by the blind 
In one fist

Their letter that vanishes
If the hand opens:

Charity come home