THE VERY OLD ONE SINGS Poem by Lucebert
THE VERY OLD ONE SINGS
there is not more in little
nor is there less
still is uncertain what was
what is to be will be will-less
first when it is it is serious
fruitless it recollects itself
and stays in great haste
everything of worth is defenceless
grows rich from touchability
and equal to everything
like the heart of time
like the heart of time
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5/5/2024 5:11:40 AM # 1.0.0.1119
