At some
point, he knew,
A
proper chess game might awake,
Know
itself and know
What
its course should be.
But
then the white player forgets
That
his bishop grows old
Or the
black player is stirred
By the
white King's sad eyes
The
game screams -- Joseph
Could
mimic the sound exactly --
As
destiny settles back uneasily
For a ride on the wrong train.
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