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The Sleepers

 No map traces the street
Where those two sleepers are.
We have lost track of it.
They lie as if under water In a blue, unchanging light, The French window ajar Curtained with yellow lace.
Through the narrow crack Odors of wet earth rise.
The snail leaves a silver track; Dark thickets hedge the house.
We take a backward look.
Among petals pale as death And leaves steadfast in shape They sleep on, mouth to mouth.
A white mist is going up.
The small green nostrils breathe, And they turn in their sleep.
Ousted from that warm bed We are a dream they dream.
Their eyelids keep up the shade.
No harm can come to them.
We cast our skins and slide Into another time.

by William Henry Davies
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