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I, is the other with the pen
That shames this stranger
I, is this stranger too, the beams
Upon a glass, who, dumb, I recognise
Also the wood: He is as I,
But answers not nor questions what must pass
I, is this image also, yet
Which is He that shares my rood
But records my torn hands and feet?
Is there another lies within the voice
Between this I and He? Then who
Now chides the one recording the deep tunnel
By my heart, and by whose choice?
I, is the rood on which the voices meet
Which records my worn hands and tired feet
Is I, the other with the pen
Which chides the one with knowledge of my wound
Is far the strangest I; that takes
This fact beyond my eyes to see
And knows the tunnel by no voice nor sound
And which contains the I, which am the rood,
Is then the stranger: dumb, He is shamed
By others of his own
That speak through sight or word
And ask attention for his agony,
Not him, but speaking him, are heard.
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