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Birth-Dues

by
 Joy is a trick in the air; pleasure is merely 
 contemptible, the dangled
Carrot the ass follows to market or precipice;
But limitary pain -- the rock under the tower 
 and the hewn coping
That takes thunder at the head of the turret-
Terrible and real.
Therefore a mindless dervish carving himself With knives will seem to have conquered the world.
The world's God is treacherous and full of unreason; a torturer, but also The only foundation and the only fountain.
Who fights him eats his own flesh and perishes of hunger; who hides in the grave To escape him is dead; who enters the Indian Recession to escape him is dead; who falls in love with the God is washed clean Of death desired and of death dreaded.
He has joy, but Joy is a trick in the air; and pleasure, but pleasure is contemptible; And peace; and is based on solider than pain.
He has broken boundaries a little and that will estrange him; he is monstrous, but not To the measure of the God.
.
.
.
But I having told you-- However I suppose that few in the world have energy to hear effectively- Have paid my birth-dues; am quits with the people.

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