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Certain favorite words of men have gathered in a vale made of sound-waves. These words, far removed from human tongues and impositions, enjoy an hour of freedom.


Men believe that I can speak
Without the aid of thought.
True, I have murdered many kings,
Leaned upon many cheeks,
And sought the release of music,
But when I ride upon words
I am forced to steal them from the mind.
Forgive me, now, if a trace of thought
Invades my liquid purity!


You need not defend your argument
With meek verbosity,
As though you dreaded its possible subtleties.
We are not men, but words!
Men have made me a lofty acrobat
Entertaining each of their desires
With some old twist on the bars.
But let us leave the frantic tasks
Forced upon us by men.
This is our grove of rest.


Emotion, we have often crept
From our separate palaces,
Asking each other for secret favors.


We laughed because the men who made us
Could not see our desperate trading.
We will end our laugh
Upon the dust of the last man on earth
And taste a peaceful strangeness.


And I, the tortured child of your love,
Will slip from the fringe of grayness
Into the void from which I came.


And I, the moment when your arms
Touched each other in the night,
Will no longer strive
To tell the happenings to men.


And I, the glistening of whim
Of your secret love,
Will change to a question lurking within your dust.


And I, the beckoning second
When you curved a world in the twist of your fingers--
I shall vanish into your completeness.


The hope of this magic ending
Is our only consolation.
Emotion, a new philosopher
Is forging blades for your torture,
And a braggart poet
Invites me to his disdain.
Let us return to our burdens.