Break Of Dawn
L
Leo Yankevich
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I rise at the break of dawn,
still dreaming, half awake,
wondering whether I’m gone;
but, the sun on the lake,
the ancient stones, the pine-trees,
and the mad hungry birds
(in a language without words
borne to me by the breeze)
softly utter, ‘No,
on and on you must go;
this life do what you can;
eternity has no end.’
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