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Poem	The laboring through what is still undone as though legs bound we hobbled along the way is like the awkward walking of the sawn. And dying-to let go no longer feel the solid ground we stand on every day- is like his anxious letting himself fall into the water which receives him gently and which as though with reverence and joy draws back past him in streams on either side; while infinitely silent and aware in his full majesty and ever more indifferent he condescends to glide.
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