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His gaze has grown so weary from passing the bars,
that it can hold nothing else.
For him it’s as if he has a thousand bars,
and beyond his thousand bars no world.


His tireless pacing, soft and supple,
turning in the smallest possible circle,
is like a dance to seize the center
on which stands a great unconscious will.


But sometimes his eye-curtains part without a sound.
It is then that an image rises up
through the taut silence of his limbs,
and comes to rest in his heart.