Pales, the noise in sudden flight,
Like the last eves I’ve lost from sight,
Cast into thought, forgotten, fey,
Yet still alive, although far away.

Ink ‘n me quill, and countless schemes,
Rhetoric in adamantine dreams,
I prostrate ‘fore the comprehended,
Inefficient, although defended.

We were absolved with nary plea,
At the hour of English tea,
Spirits laboring, sweat’s decree,
Like dying beasts in agony.

Marco Delrio

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