Of course he was just a poet,
Not armed for conventional putsch,
Or break with falsified traditions,
A man who cared for other men,
Empty handed in the wilderness
Of power, dressed as their belief
States, with prayer cloths, with altars,
Shadowed by the painted symbols
And shrouds of Propaganda,
That drag a good man to his end,
For nothing more than blank verse,
Or for loving the whole earth.
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