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Daily I listen to prattling mob;
who next to pillage, plunder, rob ?
Oh what rustic glee is theirs,
in sterling, yen, stocks and shares.

Oh my love, how little they know,
of from whence they come, and to whither they go.
From which chaos do they stem ?
Did thee who made the light - - make them !?

Why boil me again in time ?
Pathetic word ! Pathetic rhyme !
Who, in truth, doth suffer most,
the sleeping ? Or the risen host ?

Why, Oh why, must it be,
that they love they,
and I love thee ?

That all must pass this way I guess,
to know that more, is more than less.
Thus, before I say "It's so !"
Truly do I have to know -

Does pain endure
in length of time
equal to that
where fault was mine ?.....

part two

List my son, I tell you true,
'tis not in me, 'tis all in you.
Fly not against the swinging gate;
but ride the winds, whatever state.
Let out all that burns within,
that your heart may truly brim.
Only then, can you alight,
on wondrous music made of light.

I tell you that you profit not
from that which time was sent to rot.
But time unfolds its inner prize
when spirit lifts its sleeping eyes.

Creation is a gift so true,
That which I bestow on you.
The weeping is all mine you see,
if you negate the love that's free.

Knowing this now let it flow;
let your self redeem its glow;
give away the love within;
and you and I will ever sing.

Thus, you have now seen the prize.
Go forth my son, and do likewise.
When next the gate swings in the breeze,
enjoy your time among my trees.
'Tis not in me; 'tis all in you,
the ink, the pen, for what is new.

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