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Fred Shahrebani Montreal, Canada My ancestors are all dead they will not watch over me with their generous eyes & the liquid angels that glistened like saplings on the taut silver dawn have all crashed & I could see their broken wings by the harsher light quivering slowly like water glimmering with sharp, bright suns and that timorous dawn that was dappled with myriad half-concealed eyes and shadows bent by the hills' contours and clouds tugging at the mountain tops with their red-tipped wings is efficiently dissembled by morning's remorseless light