and sailors mad for nightingales
Except of jongoleurs stretched at ease
beside old highways through the trees;
Except of dying moons that break
the hearts of lads who lie awake.
Except of fortresses in shade,
and heroes crumbled and betrayed.
Except old tales that burn away,
the stifling tapestries of day.
Old tales of life and love and fate,
Of time and space of will and fate.
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