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(This is what was bequeathed us)

by Gregory Orr

This is what was bequeathed us:

This earth the beloved left

And, leaving,

Left to us.

No other world

But this one:

Willows and the river

And the factory

With its black smokestacks.

No other, only this bank

On which the living gather.

No meaning but what we find here.

No purpose but what we make

That, and the beloved's clear instructions:

Turn me into song: sing me awake.