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In the beginning there was circularity,
The sun, the moon
The eyes of early wanderers
Who sought the comforting circles
of the openings of caves.
And in the arched and silent interiors
They painted their demons
And charging aurochs
Their shamans and broken spears
In the pulsating near-light
Of pitch-dipped torches.
The eternal hunt of yesterdays
And tomorrows
Reflected in the raging
rounded flanks
Of the sacred bull.