When the devices of this age

Fail to launch an unrest of

Spirits, marching from where

There be no cause

If it be that they do go

Go in the villain of death

That life, the mother of demise

Cannot sharpen the oxen, neither

That which our stomachs long for

In the winter colds

And when we

Are bruised by the stench of

Our dear brothers, we shall drink

The rubies and conquer the chariots

Until it calms the gods.

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