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"My Masters."

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My masters are not infallible.

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They are neither Goethe,
who had a sleepless night

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only when distant volcanoes
moaned, nor Horus,

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who wrote in the language
of gods and altar boys.

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My masters seek my advice.

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In fleecy overcoats, hurriedly
slipped on over their dreams,

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at the dawn when the cool
wind interrogates the birds,

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my masters talk in whispers.

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I can hear their broken speech.

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