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Comments about Jan Frackiewicz
The Grace Of Bygone Days
On these wistful wastes, under forlorn skies
my mist-clad memories were bound to go-and so!
The past would seem a torn and tattered tableau
When Crawling Chaos came to claim The Idiot's Price.
Over barren planes, burns a sulking sun.
Dim-lighted are the lands ever dark and dun.
On nighted hills there's always the sound
of baleful prayers and mad chantings unbound.
Leaves fall -whirl- and fall once more
onto a festering forest floor.
Among trees bearing foetid fruit.
Doleful decay from crown to root.
There I ceased to be a Man of ...