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51 COUNSEL Decades on end in stampedes of grab My chagrin is hued in olive drab Fingers and fingers linger still in the till Wonder not, then, how even the soul manages to take ill Amid a clangourous inferno of hustle and bustle Mine are the woes that chink and rustle But if – this vortex of transience – your conscience does withstand Before God and man, in Etheris you shall stand INFANT PRODIGY Sulks, sobs and cries… Running nose over greasy rags, Scratching and picking at your Measled little buttocks. Who bereft you thus Of your parentage? Those lines I see running down your cheeks I recognize; They are the tracks of your tears. So close, so next of kin Are you and I That I can tell When and how you turned orphan, The sad and wry story ...

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