| I left my home far behind, waved good-bye to my routine
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| One dusky hour’s drive north
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| I rode in man’s machine
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| Someplace in north’s wood
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| I felt that I would find
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| «There lies your reputation
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| And an honest measure of your worth»
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| This I have sought in quest
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| Since my long gone birth
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| Battling with my beasties
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| Has brought me to a truth
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| The sweeter the tongue
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| The sharper the tooth
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| I stepped forth on the Mother
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| In my search for light
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| Forgotten church to my left
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| The mansion to my right
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| Light showed through the windows
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| Of the house that I have known
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| So I had made this my guest
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| The scars of dusk had blown
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| There’s a man who carries his dreams
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| In a bag slung over his shoulder
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| No word could you understand
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| His bundleis as life’s boulders
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| So he bags his regrets
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| Into a bundle of sorrow
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| And carries them in hope
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| The hope of tomorrow
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| I left my bag out of sight
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| And sat by candle-light
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| Then I saw an apparition
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| Much to my own fright
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| I saw a compound
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| Of all that is unclean
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| Abnormal, detestable
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| The worst that I have seen
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| The ghoulish shade of decay
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| Putrid and antique
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| Unwholesome revelation
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| All that is bleak
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| A travesty of human shape
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| Upon bones of mold
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| Clothing disintegrating
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| The stench of the old
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| I know what I am
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| I am what I am
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| I stared into the glassy orbs
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| Which stared back at me
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| Then I had found my peace
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| I had found the key
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| I reached to touch the carrion
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| And it reached from the mass
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| To reveal to my fingers
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| Cold polished glass!
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| We tipped our hats
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| Good-Eve to the other
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| Picked up our bags
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| Waved good-bye to our brother
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| We’ll find the speck
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| Of truth in each riddle
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| And a looking-glass
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| Stuck in the middle
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| Wise one is master of the mind
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| Fool will be it’s slave
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| Me, I’m in the middle
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| Only a mirror, only a riddle
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| Imagine the dark obscure poet
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| Gliding through his night
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| Pausing to stare in from the out
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| He would enter, but outside he is lord
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| Imagine the pure beyond holy and evil
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| Watching, trying every extreme
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| With the calm knowledge
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| That he is colour and dance and saying
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| «There is no Renaissance
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| Only the ancients creating different lights» |