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28 The Ghost Ship She plies an inland sea. Dull With rust, scarred by a jagged reef. In Cyrillic, on her hull Is lettered Grief. The dim stars do not signify; No sonar with its eerie ping Sounds the depths—she travels by Dead reckoning. At her heart is a stopped clock. In her wake, the hours drag. There is no port where she can dock, She flies no flag, Has no allegiance to a state, No registry, no harbor berth, Nowhere to discharge her freight Upon the earth. ...

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