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When the wind picks up a swift silent call
carves through the sweeps and deeps, crafting the land
into instruments to sound out its hand,
willing the willing into a response.
The light and the free are quick to be moved.
Dust and debris spin. Water rises up.
The flexible give. And they are first to
settle, unweathered, by the winds resolve.
But the firm and the poised make no reply.
These are The Eternals and they forget
such trifling decays which, even by
the smallest degrees, cast their future’s set.
When the wind lets loose – dark, vast and vicious 
– none laid between can halt the revisions.

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