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Ode to a Translator.

To David's Trans-sorter...

   I met a man who had no feet.
   For he wore them upon his hands.
   And held-open the door for him, did I.  
   And despite the fact that I can not
   (nor he to hear)

   He made his meaning mainfest to me:

      Thank you.

To Helen's Transitior:

   Once upon a time there was a cellar 
        (cider or not, or basement or not I know not)

   And then upon that gushing hand-pumped water's

   Came lignt into her dark, dark, dark world.

   Ann (or anne -- of spelling I am not sure ;)

   I only know that Keller "saw" because of you.

To the muses 
       (that allow me to be):

   I know not from whenc I came,

   I know not wel of words French, Portugese, 
          or Japanese,

   I only know that by your tire-less and
     un-sung efforts (un-sung up until NOW).

   I know this world better.

And of 'tranlators' and 'interpreters' and
    of 'the go-between's' ,

no world's beauty would ever be known
   across even the nearest shore.

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