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The Poet

 O hour of my muse: why do you leave me,
Wounding me by the wingbeats of your flight?
Alone: what shall I use my mouth to utter?

How shall I pass my days? And how my nights?

I have no one to love.
I have no home.
There is no center to sustain my life.
All things to which I give myself grow rich and leave me spent, impoverished, alone.

by Hermann Hesse
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