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 I must keep from breaking into the story by force
for if I do I will find myself with a war club in my hand
and the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun,
your nation dead beside you.
I keep walking away though it has been an eternity and from each drop of blood springs up sons and daughters, trees, a mountain of sorrows, of songs.
I tell you this from the dusk of a small city in the north not far from the birthplace of cars and industry.
Geese are returning to mate and crocuses have broken through the frozen earth.
Soon they will come for me and I will make my stand before the jury of destiny.
Yes, I will answer in the clatter of the new world, I have broken my addiction to war and desire.
Yes, I will reply, I have buried the dead and made songs of the blood, the marrow.

Poem by Joy Harjo
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Book: Shattered Sighs