My whispering poems My treasures My arch images My treasures They honour me Dead,
creaking trees They praise me Mute, mossy
rocks They worship me Empty shells Why exalt a man murdered by his own muse To prevent
him from turning in his grave?
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My whispering poems My treasures My arch images My treasures They honour me Dead,
creaking trees They praise me Mute, mossy
rocks They worship me Empty shells Why exalt a man murdered by his own muse To prevent
him from turning in his grave?