| Hear our voices, all of you, Men of resentment; |
| whose stomachs and souls are
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| aflame with the poisonous hatred of impotence; |
| you whom have been wronged again
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| and again; |
| wiping your face clean, day after day, from the spit of those
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| sitting unjustifiably above you
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| We will grant you freedom from freedom
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| We will burn and not explain, and this will feel ecstatic
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| As thou cometh unto us, we shall ease your sense of frustration and isolation:
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| from your mouths will flow endless rivers of black bile, you will regurgitate
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| the quintessence of failure and, in the depths of the night, feel the warmth of
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| equity recovering your shivering body
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| Your longing for flames engulfing the desirable things of yore and the drowning
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| of the successful in crimson oceans are tainted by the aching premonition that
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| your marches to the cries of «all or
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| Nothing at all «will, of course, yield the latter for you
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| We are to arm and turn all of you into the expendable hounds of our Order
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| We will grant you freedom from freedom
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| Together, we will burn and not explain, and this will feel ecstatic
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| We will give you just enough of a taste of paradise to feed your insatisfaction
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| and turn you into feral dogs. |
| There’s a grave at the other end of this metanoia,
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| a grave large enough for your former
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| And future self
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| O hound, feral dog, we shall grant you freedom from freedom, relief from
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| frustration |