Pray for rain when you could seed the clouds;
Hope for the best when all you wait
Is for your own idle indecision to shatter.
Why ever claim that you are a mere pawn
And insignificant to the extent of vain modesty?
All this when you draw blood at the onset of winter
With no god to goad you and no sun above...
If ever His words were to come true, we’d be slaves,
Carrying out work commanded by our own delirium.
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