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I Write This Now

Not all things that do not make sense are stupid,
I broke the wing of the South wind in my ignorance,
The twelve stones in my breastplate were not mine,
Beneath your yoke a laboring giant was sleeping,
How well you joke and fiddle to the sound of weeping,
Know you, in your old riddles keeping,
that light will burst away your gallows humour,
When scales from the eyes of gods
And reveal you as a tumour
johnnyjohnnyjohnny johnnyjohnnyjohnny 26-30, M Feb 7, 2011

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