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Tuesday, 21 March 2006


Mountains surrounded my exile,

my steps the only sound a hundred miles ahead,

and no welcome but a multitude of ways.

Every corner in the uncut hills

scourged me to elect a destination,

but no winds nor north star

could guide me now, nor binnacle.

No bird flew above

the white-haired & blue-clad crags:

I searched every crossroad for a sign.

I had to make the runes.

I had to mark out the way.

[G.Bantock, 'Wilderness']

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