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On a late fall morning, before the sun took the chilly fog from the air, I imagined him walking within these red brick walls, alone, contemplating the fruits and flowers that had blossomed and since withered in this English garden. In this quiet space, contemplating the inconceivable as he communed with history's liberators, under his breath at first, and I imagine the uncertain fruits and flowers of the coming revolution first took form here in this beautiful garden, in vaguely felt chaos-- until a tornado arose in his soul. His vision must have been compelling to inspire such courage in the face of immense uncertainty, to risk everything held dear. I wonder if he sensed he would be buried here, victorious and immortal, here where the fruits and flowers of patriotic dreams continue to blossom long after his longest winter? |
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