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Hint
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Answer
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There once was a country... I left it as a child
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but my memory of it is sunlight-clear
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for it seems I never saw it in that November
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which, I am told, comes to the mildest city.
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The worst news I receive of it cannot break
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my original view, the bright, filled paperweight.
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It may be at war, it may be sick with tyrants,
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but I am branded by an impression of sunlight.
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SPACE
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1
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The white streets of that city, the graceful slopes
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glow even clearer as time rolls its tanks
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and the frontiers rise between us, close like waves.
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That child's vocabulary I carried here
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like a hollow doll, opens and spills a grammar.
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Soon I shall have every coloured molecule of it.
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It may by now be a lie, banned by the state
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but I can't get it off my tongue. It tastes like sunlight.
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SPACE
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1
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I have no passport, there's no way back at all
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but my city comes to me in its own white plane.
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It lies down in front of me, docile as paper;
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I comb its hair and love its shining eyes.
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My city takes me dancing through the city
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of walls. They accuse me of absence, they circle me.
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They accuse me of being dark in their free city.
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My city hides behind me. They mutter death,
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and my shadow falls as evidence of sunlight.
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