While revising I found this poem written on a scrap of paper in my book - it must have been scribbled during a bored moment in a lecture hall or a quiet moment in 106, since I think that is where it is talking about, and then there is no question about who:
Even dust looks beautiful in the light
which casts the crystal colours on your wall
the westerly window looks out on sunsets
and sunrises you don't see, you hear
the spokes on wheels and not the firemans call.
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