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His stomach pains recall the silver seas
that he sailed in his youth, south of the ice
and around the islands and mysteries
that he poured into tomes, not once but twice:
The first voyage crossed crisp waves and sharp air
until a hilly land came into view
with cloven furrows and currents of fair
streams stroked with mineral, and clovers with dew:
He hight it Knoll-land for its sloping hills
that pushed gently in green before his eyes;
he heard the Prophet's words, his breast felt chills;
they named the site where the Chosen One dies:
But it was not to be; he sailed back home
on the sea towards his task; the waves wept foam.

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