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One chair, alone in the jungle. In the vines’ tight gripa sacred tree groans.Other vines spiral skyward, bloodspattered creatureshowl deep within the shadows,giant leaves drop from the green sky.A snake shakesthe dry rattles on its tail,a bird flashes through the foliagelike an arrow aimed at a flagwhile the branches shoulder their violins. Squatting on their flowers,insectspray without stirring.Our feet sinkinthe black weedsof the jungle sea,in clouds fallen from the forest canopy, and all I askfor the foreigner,for the despairing scout,is a seatin the sitting-tree,a throneof unkempt velvet,the plush of an overstuffed chair torn up by the snaking vines - for the man who goes on foot,a chairthat embraces everything,the soundground andsupremedignityof repose!Get behind me, thirsty tigersand swarms of bloodsucking flies – behind me, black morassof ghostly fronds,greasy waters,leaves the color of rust,deathless snakes.Bring me a chairin the midst ofthunder,a chair for meand for everyonenot onlyto relievean exhausted body butforevery purposeand for every person,for squandered strengthand for meditation.War is as vast as the shadowy jungle. A single chairisthe first signof peace.