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But was it Camus who said Wasn't it the butcher who said Perhaps it was I who said
Autumn is a second spring he'd operate on my identity my tongue was wronged--
when every leaf is a flower? until I had slowly been bled as while I prayed and read
Yet I know that I am dead into kindness and serenity? and inherited freedom songs,
and dead-er by the hour Not sure anymore--it maybe my mind, raveling like a knot,
in my sad and furious head. only leaves were actually shed. forgot--sick tyranny lies ahead.