And thus I, the smiling anchorite,
the destroyer who blasphemes
in the sulfuric heat of our lands,
feel the freshness of belief inside
of me and I dreamed of living
among them though even them
cried out: go gypsy, go.
Let them exile me. I revere them
I the speaker of beautiful truth
none of the demagogue revenge
guides me and for this I stand
before you so you can hear me
chiming my slow, funereal bell.

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