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Night, you fabricator of deceptions,
insane, fantastic, and chimerical, who show those who derive delight from you the mountains flattened and the seas gone dry; inhabitor of hollow, empty brains, mechanic, alchemist, philosopher, a vile concealer, lynx that cannot see, you are of your own echoes terrified: darkness, fear, and evil are your works, cautious, poetess, infirm and cold, with ruffian's hands and feet of fugitive. Whether I sleep or wake, half my life's yours: if I'm awake, I pay you the next day, and if I sleep, I sense not what I live. Lope de Vega 1562 - 1635 (© Alix Ingber, 1995) |
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