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Poem	When the writing is going well, I am a prince in a desert palace, fountains flowing in the garden. I lean an elbow on a velvet pillow and drink from a silver goblet, poems like a banquet spread before me on rugs with rosettes the damask of blood. But exiled from the palace, I wander -- crawling on burning sand, thirsting on barren dunes, believing a heartless mirage no less true than palms and pools of the cool oasis.
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