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■ The oak
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Sinking slowly in the ashes of existence
And still you're rising like those feeble stars, Your feather withers in a weak enigma From all the flaming dust that dripped upon you, A totem so sacred, so pure, so toil-worn... Don't let them, with ardours, smother your steam. Open your gate to the world, flap your wings Across the oceans of filth, poison and sludge All lying in your past, an undying gathering. In you the galaxies break in with wonders, They take a bow and humbly pay tribute So you will leave your death behind, stillborn and pure. Then, when they'll place you in your mould, Knock the highest gate with crystal fingers, Melt at sunrise like a flower does at sunset For serene you are, a lightsome virgin You'll spread bouquets of flowers from the early springs, You'll wear a golden flame, and not a crown.
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