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Humid masses, pink and gray,
rushing, vanish, stay awhile,
forming lumps, aim at begetting,
generating shapes of wonder.
Fable-children, night and day,
forever doomed to play, beguile,
wish to escape the spheric setting,
wanting myth and break asunder.
Full of despair they fight their way,
drifting along many a mile,
address the stars and turn to begging,
not knowing what and how to ponder.
So in their sphere they have to stay,
alone as well as in a pile,
there is no inter-spheric wedding,
stars high above, clouds way down yonder.
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