What do I know now,
of myself, of the others?
Blood flows out to the fleeing
Nebulae, and flows back, red
With all the worn space of time.
It is my blood. I cannot
Taste in it as it leaves me
More of myself than on its
Return. I can see in it
Trees of silence and fire. 
--from 'The Reflecting Trees of Being
..and Not Being'; Kenneth Rexroth 

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