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Commère of Truth
I write a poem in purple mourning;
There is no greater sorrow
than that of the Sun
when bleeding tears of fruitless Barrenness
which cannot save your desolated Desert
Oh what dark task to be Commère of Truth
When Love is not Enlightment
but is condemned to Bitterness
Confession and at last Confusion
Oh how to call upon conclave
to seek Conciliation, Hope and Sweetness
if Beauty is discarded for the grave
and Honesty gives way to Death's dark Lie ...
myra
