And from where wings are clipped,
Held by branches these thorns hold,
Ere mine how soft is brought to fall,
Tender sleeps the eyes their locked soul,
Who frees himself from veins how scratched,
No better the darts in bars ye throw,
He would walk through them as he does in you,
Mentor the lights to guide your path away
For fire brewed in heart at angst with mind,
Nay, it ought be for leverage gain in sight,
And the cello plays, nor Marais complain;
Cast me away to the sound of beauty regain.
‘Tis in the nineteenth year this century,
When written a year earlier a man forsook.
Now art be gain, ’tis loss be had in shook,
Now finished are words wiser for hearth fought,
Now marred by feline cues this man is sold.
A cello, and a piano is violin but ears unfold.

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