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The dark, thirty-five thousand feet of air
Two hundred and twenty-eight in terror

Whether it pitched down like a bird of prey
Whether any were conscious then to pray

If in the cold of altitude the fuselage broke up
If it dove intact for miles till the sea tore it up –

I know none of this – knew none (I was asleep
Four thousand miles distant in the double bed I keep):

Not whether or how they anticipated death
Through the steep dark – but this far I have faith

That there are other minds I know
I knew nothing of them in the terror they knew

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