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For you, Conquerors, inexhaustible dark, glory of rotting silk, immortality of tinfoil garlands.

For you pompous bronze in littered city squares and homage of untidy sparrows.

For us the sun, for us dusty roads of the South between cactus and vine, roads that scramble and pant up through the gorse, through the fern to the keen still peaks, then vanish over the pass, waving us after through silent uplands fragrant with mint and snow,

winding forever onward through the placid sunlight of mellow afternoons drowsy with drone of bees, through the smoky gold of evenings that pattern the valley with amber of sunset rivers, through nights of honeyed moons and festooned constellations

to find at the day's end welcome of lighted inns, warmth of dark wine,