The morning has its own form of grief
as it is obliged to present to the creator
the destroyed earth.
The Art's final hour
I close your books, o god of theirs
because my judge she is grander than you
grief humble before her mercy
as when she asks me who are you, why write
you yet another indifference in the set.
I gaze at your pasts, o god our god
and poetry is more powerful than myself
the pen minute before her might
when she shows me who you are, why indifferent
you the great infinite nullness in the universe.
The hour of my dying is not far
it is coming with the death of the arts
I light candles at your windows; o god their god
when the others cheer my crucifixion
before the truth of man's new era.
I hold their books, o god my god
and their knowledge is greater than you
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