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FOR the gladness here where the sun is shining at
          evening on the weeds at the river,
     Our prayer of thanks.

For the laughter of children who tumble barefooted and
          bareheaded in the summer grass,
     Our prayer of thanks.

For the sunset and the stars, the women and the white
          arms that hold us,
     Our prayer of thanks.

If you are deaf and blind, if this is all lost to you,
God, if the dead in their coffins amid the silver handles
          on the edge of town, or the reckless dead of war
          days thrown unknown in pits, if these dead are
          forever deaf and blind and lost,
     Our prayer of thanks.

The game is all your way, the secrets and the signals and
          the system; and so for the break of the game and
          the first play and the last.
     Our prayer of thanks.


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