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Silence You things of the Macrocosm, You gnaw at my soul as though it were meat. You dull my cogitation with your blather, Oh you servants of the profane, My throat burns with bile As I regurgitate upon the Effluvial prophesies. Ah, Chronos turns his visage from thee, The angels shall perceive once more. And if darkness fills their eyes, Then they will be recycled By the sweet embrace of the scepter. All is naught. From naught I was expelled, To naught I shall be absorbed. And until that day My silence shall be felt. |
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