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Often, but always with great wonder
I have observed from the window of our
dusty van
A string of abandoned and buried caravanserai
Strung like prayer beads
Across the broad and thirsty plains of
Anatolia –
Disguised by time and nearly indistinguishable
From the ancient rounded hills
Through which throngs have marched and traded,
fought and loved,
And which history has never recorded.