And turn into dark quiet air,
Is a man-made wall of stones,
Dividing nothing from nowhere.
The wall is well made, symmetric,
Straight, now calico'd with moss,
I wonder whose sturdy hands built it,
Each stone gathered and carried across
Distance to be carefully put in place,
To organize, to mitigate loss,
The serried stones are a trace
Of old labor, hope, and sweat,
A stubborn, solid monument to someone,
An anonymous appeal, to not forget.
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