Too long away from
Rhythmic pulse and thrust
And wondering that
What is dry may rust
That what is near no
Oven grows a crust
And grows stale, too
Too brittle for a bust
That stands firm, pale
And, still new, in full trust
That it remains untouched
Or hopes, at least. It must
Be kept contained
By those who think it just
And not, as oft,
Antenna raised for lust
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