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A soul is something we have every now and then.
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Nobody has one all the time
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or forever.
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Day after day,
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year after year,
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can go by without one.
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Only sometimes in rapture
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or in the fears of childhood
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it nests a little longer.
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Only sometimes in the wonderment
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that we are old.
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It rarely assists us
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during tiresome tasks,
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such as moving furniture,
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carrying suitcases,
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or traveling on foot in shoes too tight.
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When we're filling out questionnaires
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or chopping meat
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it's usually given time off.
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Out of our thousand conversations
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it participates in one,
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and even that isn't a given,
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for it prefers silence.
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When the body starts to ache and ache
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it quietly steals from its post.
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It's choosy:
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not happy to see us in crowds,
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sickened by our struggle for any old advantage
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and the drone of business dealings.
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It doesn't see joy and sorrow
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as two different feelings.
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It is with us
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only in their union.
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We can count on it
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when we're not sure of anything
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and curious about everything.
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Of all material objects
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it likes grandfather clocks
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and mirrors, which work diligently
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even when no one is looking.
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It doesn't state where it comes from
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or when it will vanish again,
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but clearly it awaits such questions.
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Evidently,
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just as we need it,
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it can also use us
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for something.
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