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In the loam we sleep,

In the cool moist loam,

To the lull of years that pass

And the break of stars,

From the loam, then,

The soft warm loam.

We rise:

To shape of rose leaf,

Of face and shoulder.

We stand, then,
To a whiff of life,

Lifted to the silver of the sun

Over and out of the loam

A day.