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Meursault
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All Creatues Will Make Merry...Under Pain Of Death
So long ago that I'm not even sure
if the eyes that the eyes that meet me in my sleep
are yours at all
or a mirror of my own.
You were there in the crowd
when they tore you to the ground
and through your flesh and bone they did march
claiming all as their own, leaving nothing for yourself.
We burned those wolves last night
and their remain to remind
that in museums made of these flames
we were born, we will grow and we will die.
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