Limited by imagination rather than experience,

Experiencing life only within your limits,

Pleasure a thing you do not think you deserve,

Deserving nothing but to please everyone…

On and on you tread the shores of life,

With your broken oars at hand,

Wanting nothing but your deserved pence,

Getting nothing within any merits,

Life is nothing like the thoughts you reserve,

In your sanctuary away from everyone…

Pummel on, though for with strife it is rife

Life, may at last deal you a good hand


When wars and ruined men shall cease

To vex your idealized world of peace,

And broken children shall no longer lie

Limp like your dreams, waiting to die

I will let you lie peacefully in bed

To nurse a whole and sacred

Grief, but now, oh dear Ciru, pummel on you must

For we cannot know just

When victory like the last embers of hope

Will warm our hearts, and we will pop

Like your sixth toe off the norm

Into sweet remission, oh the form


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