Marked by years itinerant
No soap sufficing to scrub clean a spot
More gladly taken than Lady Macbeth's
But what brother-slaying prompted
The forehead-branded exile
Subjection to scorn and opprobrium of lookers-on
Without even the protection of a forgiving god
Extending a sheltering hand after having raised in in rebuke:
Not for nothing am I a man of no faith
Standing alone among many who think themselves blessed
By a power in which I have long been unable to believe
Not for nothing
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