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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