favoured are the blissful
in their ignorance of poetry
they taste the nectar full
which the despaired can only seek
the poet's soul knows no existence
it's but a myth and but a sin
to which no man should be allowed admittance
it's but a game, there is no way to win
they know they only dream
My beautiful Calliope,
Will you also be
Ulysses' home, Penelope?
but rhyme is but a pipeline
an excuse for mere insanity
in the end the distance only
can be seen by eyes so lonely
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