The past is a tree,
A massive complication
That is slowly still growing.
The past is a bed,
Framed out of trees, by the tree,
A sleigh bed under the leaves.
The past is tiled floor,
Mosaics under the bed,
Smothering the ground around
Trunk and roots of living tree.
The past is the walls
And low roof below branches,
Enclosing the secret room
Odysseus remembers.
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