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Collect your mind’s fragments
     that you may fill yourself
          bit by bit with Meaning:
the slave who meditates
     on the mysteries of Creation
          for sixty minutes
gains more merit
     than from sixty years
          of fasting and prayer.
     high-soaring hawk
          of Intellect’s wrist
resting at last
     on the flowering branch
          of the Heart:
this world and the next
     are hidden beneath
          its folded wing.
Now perched before
     the mud hut
          which is Earth
now clasping with its talons
     a branch of the Tree
          of Paradise
soaring here
     striking there — each moment
          fresh prey
gobbling a mouthful of moonlight
     wheeling away
          beyond the sun
darting between the Great Wheel’s
     star-set spokes, it rips to shreds
          the Footstool and the Throne
a Pigeon’s feather
     in its beak —
          or a comet —
till finally free of everything
     it alights, silent
          on a topmost bough.
Hunting is king’s sport,
     not just anyone’s
but you?
     you’ve hooded the falcon
          — what can I say? —
clipped its pinions
     broken its wings…

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