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WHAT do we see here in the sand dunes of the white
     moon alone with our thoughts, Bill,
Alone with our dreams, Bill, soft as the women tying
     scarves around their heads dancing,
Alone with a picture and a picture coming one after the
     other of all the dead,
The dead more than all these grains of sand one by one
     piled here in the moon,
Piled against the sky-line taking shapes like the hand of
     the wind wanted,
What do we see here, Bill, outside of what the wise men
     beat their heads on,
Outside of what the poets cry for and the soldiers drive
     on headlong and leave their skulls in the sun for--
     what, Bill?


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