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A Miscellany 111
Illusion of Man

by Jonathan Andrew Beagley

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Illusion of Man

Lonely melodies, floating listlessly :
what of these clouds,
are they not bid enter in?
Of course—they are far too beauteous for this
land, place, mortal cell—
death dwells here at dawn and dusk.

And forget the white-washed gate;
it means nothing and is nothing—illusion of man.

Terrible arias descend in the shape of corpses;
Dissonant choruses sing of the fire and brimstone;
let us not forget the God-breathed words that
have formed this contemptuous creation within us.