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    Birth and Death
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Sun of Transcendence

By Michael Piggott

Sometimes the few
Sometimes the many
For long have they come
To the Singer of Songs

Long did he succour them
No carrot, no stick
For in freedom he spoke
And gentle his words

Straight were those thoughts
Scattered as seeds
That reached to the heart
According to need

And as the light fades
As it always must
Are our lamps lit bright
For the coming of night

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