If it was bestowed upon me,
To grant life back to the dead,
By what means would I choose to do so?
I would not choose the sun to accompany me,
For there is one more fitting
If granting love to a maiden of maidens,
I would tell the moon,
Let your soft light conceal itself tonight,
Your charm falls short in this instance
If I were to condemn a land for its barren state,
Bones and death would still need order
How would i place words upon my tongue?
Inspiration in all of its glory,
In all of its splendor,
Comes to nothing without the hands of another
And so, for my hands,
Not only in these things,
But in all,
I would choose poetry
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