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The Road Back

Sometimes I think

that memory relives

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the old belief

that all roads led to Baghdad.

Who could think it strange

that in old age,

David the king

wrote psalms in the imagery

of David, the shepherd boy,

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left behind so long ago -

recalling how he led

his flocks to green pastures,

and beside the still waters.

Sometimes I think

that in moments of memory,

all thoughts lead home,

and although the distance

cannot be anything but the same,

the road back is always shorter

than the way we came.

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