Battered, torn
like the garments
of Egyptian peasants.
How does one man
be thus reborn?
With the lion's
tail I write my lines
I paint my sceneries;
vexation brings
them from my hands.
And when the piercing
thunders roll, as
Grecian men astute
and strong. Make
noises you own not.
No spit of roses, daffodils,
or even dew-don
grass will rise on
your melancholy,
solitary grave.
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