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On waiting






Many suns have risen
The morning has also become old
Yet I have been waiting here
As new as new it can be
And as fresh as
The oodles of fresh flowers in March
The silence of a dead night
The mother in the labour room
The excitement of an impending fete
Like meeting a friend from the past
Like a lover yearning for his love
Like a child with bright, glistering eyes
Like an animal on a full stomach
Here I am, with prospect—waiting
for no Godot, but looking into
The wrinkled matutinal face of winter airs
—for the Arrival.


































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