The Mystic

Picture: Landscape With Wonderer by Thomas Fearnley

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Long have I roamed and spoke in praise of You.

For love of peril, I rode my good bikes

Relentlessly, without a thing to do.

The stars have witnessed me on boundless hikes.

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Your silver quill on boughs of linden trees

Do write the verse I cannot seem to read.

Too sharp, too thin, Your hands on wings of bees

Delineate shapes I cannot seem to breed.

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But please refrain from thinking humans err.

Perspectives change and rearrange upon

This ball of dirt; they choose what they prefer

In every moment, which rock to roll on.

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The end of times is here for You to feast,

The clock is dead, long live the holy beast.

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Herons