HARP O' THE WINDS
Take stock. Figure it out. Even as
a little boy you were holding the
wrong cards. Now play your
losing game without complaint.
Go forward from this time, and
remember : every waltz the
dynamite played, every city
that fell to the war, all those
faces, purple'd and maimed.
Heat. Fire. Burns. Torture.
Where were you born little
fellow? In the ash-pit
of old Berlin?
-
There is no mantle sending
forward its light and flowers.
The only happiness you can
find will come from within.
The glimmer of a happy
heart : you are all and
everything it can hold.
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