In the Time of Tyrants

All that the hand may touch;
All that the hand may own;
Crumbles beyond time’s clutch
Down to oblivion.


Fear not the boasts which wound:
Fear not the threats which bind:
Always on broken ground
The seeds fall from the mind.


Always in darkest loam
A birthday is begun;
And from its catacomb
A candle lights the sun.

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