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For three barren years
I produced no fruit
To my wit so torpid
I fed no food.

Lost in the thoughts
Of a world so high
Of leisure and pain
Seldom moist often dry.

Cradled the leisure
To kill the pain
The mastery I learnt
Rests there in vain.

My path so beautiful,
So calm and secure
Is defiled by material
So vile and impure.

goodness gracious

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