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They run

separate but peaceful - two rivers I know - having the same parentage in the high land, and higher than that I suppose, counting clouds, though I haven't seen. They cross the same country, reflect and absorb the same sun, carry the same life, and like tears on a common face expunge the livingness of being free but knotted to existence, freed but attached always by their peace, held but freed by the uncertainty of when and if they will join before the sea joins them.