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The past belongs to the future…
but only the present
can preserve it.
THIS OLD TOWN
I was born here.
In a long-ago land of shadows and muted sounds
I brushed against the pages of my days,
Partially separated the shadows and sounds.
The world was hot and cold against my cheeks
Within these small structured walls, I learned
While my fancies found wings
And sailed far beyond these walls.
I worshipped here.
The soaring sounds touched God
And He made me a sinner.
I loved here,
And became immortal
For a moment.
I heard the music of life
And I carried the music within me.
In the melted minutes of larger shadows and louder sounds
I sweat cold sweat
I smelled the odors of life
And slowly died.
I was buried here
Under the cold clay of a faraway field.
A few unheard words gave my entire life meaning.
Stirring my silent screams even more than before.
The town is gone now
And the treasure of my life is spent
Upon the night winds and the weeds,
And on eternity.
— Perry Eberhart, Ghosts of the Colorado Plains, Swallow Press Books, Athens, Ohio, 1986.