Ruins of the age of faith ode to crumbled fate of ages
Creation-stoking sounds from sages mere whispers, our doings traceless
Circling gracelessly our gilded cage, reviewing old pages.
Muniments of title lost amidst wave-tossed letter ocean
King in cups, of cups, sips his bitter potion
His meagre portion unmansome sets motion
To devices he devises with devil’s advisements.
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