A heap of voices crowds and drinks the air,
petty tyrants claiming the cosmos' share,
demanding rights to turn all life into a sphere
of private feelings they exchanged so dear.
In vain I try to find some unity,
as all my hopes limp on tragically.
I want to shield the wooded lands with glass,
enclose my rightful homelands, hold them fast.
All modern "gentlemen" speak of abundance,
yet I suckle at the breast of paranoia's substance,
seeing around me ugly, rushed distress—
a vulgar dance of new, absolute ignorance.
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