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When you walk along this beach
You take all that you can carry —
Dog, shoes, shadow — even,
If you are not very selective,
“The Ride of the Valkyries.”

And you think because
You walk this beach
So Easy and so Free
That you will always
Stroll upon this sand,
This land of Liberty.

Look up. A large Black Dog
Shambles and sniffs
Along this wet, Black strand,
And Eight Black Ravens
Settle at the surf line,
Where the drunken Crone
Draws her sign in the  sand;
A sign where there are no signs.

You’re weary of all you carry,
So you leave it behind
Heaped in a pile on the beach,
Heaped with the Crone,
The Ravens and the Dog,
Hoping it will fade
Forever out of reach,
Becoming just one more
Forgotten bonfire
Behind you on the beach.

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