Sunday, July 1, 2012


Ever marching in the ditch,
in endless circles through the pitch,
shuffling with their heads turned round,
tears down their back and on the ground,
Seers looking for the future
missing the present and the law,
now only see where they have past.

My security and their abject shame:
a fire burns high but a candle is yet a flame.
Nothing ever ends, but nothing stays the same.

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