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The tragedian aligns his face for the role

And his hand on the plow

His penance to dwell in a land without sound

Without warmth

To be surrounded by nouns with no substance

Heart ruptured, he never evolved his hands

To lay waste to the land

And feed from the faithless

Vacuous nature of his soul 

Aligned his inner with distance and spaces

Purported from the faceless

Unaligned with his greatness 

He joined the escapists

But even the great Danton

Couldn’t escape what was fated