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We are dust, so begets our kind
we are human and so binds us to this rhyme
the wheels turn on but never stop the line
we are but a game, no tactics to merit
no Rhyme nor reason to the horrors which we dine,
life, to us is but what we inherit
the pendulums quake, the sprockets doth spin,
all is but the way time mares it
The wars trail off and the fires die down
god wants no court with us
for we have all let him down
not fit for his glory, nor his great gift the ground



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