Giant of knowledge, you in my conscience, as I speak of you now I acknowledge that I am not adequate I know do you hear me I am more

uncertain as I consider how insubstantial the matter I consist of is nothing equalling minor figures, zero, not even enough for an illusion bereft and afflicted or bound to zeal the purpose of being a poet is the longer the longing continues since abandoned by its spirit and was lost the force of a thousand glances folded up inside a bottle of glass.

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