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Ancestoral events sealed in another mystery, some exotic time ago, when I gazed close-eyed through an open columned portico — to broad white limestone places, an ancient sun's rays glinting from austere lines spaced evenly by twin goliath ziggurats made of translucent glassy stone, rising on the thick jungle rim — reflects bluish windy light on moving forms below — gathering, slowly, this hovering process — ceremoniously stroking my yellow robe — looking out I see again the yellow parrot bird flapping at the broad-leafed tree which intrudes long branches into my strong shaded room — It is a time we knew would come — Some appear — now speaking to me our special tongue words of that which waits to be done — a woman in yellow cloth sings — and I am there — another place with soft and even light, frames out figures clustered in small groups on the wide stone overhang; a cliff, high and everywhere — distance, unprotected, steeped with danger, yet familiar as she who comes to call me as long before — within this shadowed house of heavy wood, gives me some things, and I grow ever larger — singing, their choired voices chant my phrases as I begin to write, echoed over and again by her singular voice — I write the magics of "Goeralegan."
— Don Snyder
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