Good evening my Monsignor
it be still winter
and red dusk from home
is relatively not so relevant
reason is akin
to tyrant-type uniformity
away
from that chance and probability
the Fount of Chance and Probability
from which gush as from the breasts
of the woman milk for children:
there gush the waters whose clear
beauty carries in it
the genesis of ideas flowing
new continual and ever-increasing
at which Dogma finding herself
cornered on her own ground
flies away.
Good Evening My Monsignor
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