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All poems dwell in paradise
when able Muse makes use
of a mindless hand, mere prop
for a borrowed pen.

There’s no fallow ground for a seed
conceived as such and sown
when  once blind eyes are opened
in epiphany.

Hill or vale, the poet summons
alchemy and sets out
to drain wells with a thimble,
thus a poem is born

to dwell in paradise forever,
while the poet, caught up
in pursuit of perfection,
is consigned to hell.

Yet even in bleakest despair
the poet writes on. Night
is darkest before the dawn;
Hope springs eternal.

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