At night you dream of what broken hands may make,
Come sunrise youve forgotten to create.
Only life can help mend your broken bones
For stones were thrown when battles took place.
You fought with your sticks,
Memories without faith.
From roots of sacred trees.
Ideas waver in the southern breeze.
The paper shackles you down.
Dionysus sat with jewels at his feet,
Silver thread in his hair
On a throne of brittle bones
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