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THE
AGONY IN THE GARDEN
The
ground so stony, like a thing that will always occur;
evening
so warm, as if the sky were a wing;
the
friends snoring, drunk with grief;
the
city so distant, like the miles between the sleepers;
the
paths so clean, like the grooves on a shell;
the
stream so empty the sea will not recognise it;
the
light so hard that nothing can be misplaced;
and
so gentle the party that winds towards him;
the
olive garden so hushed, as when a woman
turns
down the light in her kitchen;
his
cry
Let
this cup pass!
so
demonic
as
night falls and love petrifies.
Alan
Marshfield
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