Of those with conscience buried

Audience, had I.

To the sinister, the allegiance of such

Was inclined.

Melodies of nativity, foreign and rare

True, were reproduced

And esteemed, among the host

Of those who would hear;

The whole of which would be my muse.

The quiver of my reed and soreness of my thumb

To them, bearing no more meaning

Than the nighttime veil, a vision

At once overwhelmingly beautiful,

But accepted as mundane ambience.

As by budding youth

It is forgotten, and rediscovered,

Such beautiful monotony.

And there sat I, to be found in concert

With those whose ears were plugged and stopped

Whose cherry lips dripped with wine

And whose dazzled eyes were then overwhelmed.

No great toll was it for me

To sit speaking with them,


For the whole of this land,

The mass of their worlds

Was sliding closer to the

End of time.


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