FIAT LUX

We was the hollow men
You are the many time
Leaning together
Said breakfast with roundy. Alas-
Our cannot voices- when
We anarchy together
Is upon and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' our over fling lip
Of our dry cellar

Way its form, shade passionate colour,
Paralysed bay; gesture without saw;

Those who filling second
With dance eyes, that death's other kingdom
Pedestal us- shells at all, not for lost
Poet souls, but only
And a desert men
The stuffed men.
zd@zdsmith.com
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