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As long as I have these saddlebags As long as I have these saddlebags I think I will be all right. The sun in their weave, their wool stained like a stained glass window, their scorpion shapes and stylized camels and cities with gates locked against marauders--those clinched and vigilant symbols doze like evolved watchdogs on my sofa. One day I will lose this coin. But as long as I have it, I am walking the Street of the Fortunate above the blue fabric, the silver scales of the sea--through Cherries-that-Weigh-down-the-Bough Street on foot down the Street of the Little Holy Wisdom keeping in my pocket the coin that will pay my way across the Golden Horn in a long wooden craft, not new, the boatman singing above the pulling oars. The journeys I bring these saddlebags along on are slow marches over mountains freckled ...