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We have our own concept of who we
are. I had to suppress worry.
I smiled; somehow came words:
We live on the eye of god.
The eye moves rough in its course of vision;
the oceans only shifting tears on its surface.
Granite cities, deep and proud,
are bits of dust. They float, too
small to be felt.
If someday the dust gets too big,
god will blink.
©2003, Bob Jude Ferrante
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