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Getting Away
I'll hear blame in the incessant voices of the rain
And I'll hear praise in the birdsong after the storm,
I'll tramp over rocks where cascades leap and roll
And I will be clothed in the slow wind from the shore.
The stream will bring me news from the mountain,
The rising sun will pull back my blanket of mist and cold,
The setting sun will cover me in a dark insect swarm
And I'll have my bones for a mattress on the forest floor.
I'll travel past the furthest signpost and stony track
To the country beyond the country - and then on through
Pitiless wastes of ice where frosty branches crack
And ghostly boomers cry: 'Who are you? Who are you?'
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