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By Elijah Dahunsi '25

September 24, 2022

Spring forthcomes from wintry

chains, gusts caught solemnly

in pockets of silted soil. In time,

the breeze will bounce from cinders

of earth announced by the presence

of roses, returned to you from hands

that splinter with cracks of flesh,

of blood. A napkin, please, before

we enter this space, the hollow of

dirt and limestone and light produced

by glass with heat surrounding like fiery

bristles. We need no tour. To its doors

and floors we are akin. Kneeled down with

eyes draped by skin and joints pressed up

against the corpses of bark, we remind

ourselves that linens of dark await us,

that dust must always return. When

grace is said, and all but wind vacates

this place, we accept our sojourn to divinity.

Illustration by Ashley Yae '23


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