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Three years I walked unsighted and silent
Through small towns and backcountry dust
While wonders unremarkably blew by.
Three years I laughed and tied my hope to sand
And chased with mortal, calloused hands
Those dream-built palaces soon to arise.
For three years I watched as my slow soul grew
Worn and wise, waiting, undistilled.
Were we just filled with some crowd-pleasing lines?
Awake, unable, abandoned again.
Sweet sleep sidesteps my soul, and it’s raining
On Jerusalem since midday Friday.
The palaces have tumbled from their perch.
A blood-red brow beckons my curse.
Three years disappear. I’ll mourn my curse on Sunday.
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