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THE MYTHOS OF THE MAN FROM ENOCH Faintly against the stars, From the northmost march to the Crab, I see the undulant outlines Of the vast, ameboid Spirit. Foggy grains of fire Light the tortuous paths Within the hungry hands, Brain, body and feet. Time is already victim And at only the farthest milestone Is there space pure as water Upon a delectable mountain. I cannot reach those ranges. Hours become a lifetime As I linger at each crossroads Waiting the blow on the cheek. God is brutish life! God is the living ether! Within these strange entrails We must build our beautiful houses. [39] ...

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