Your own
The march of tradition
Lacks wings to your heaven.
The mud of your birth-
Name will plough into earth.
The god of your fathers
Is the bauble of toddlers
And the land of your mothers
Is the coddling of crawlers.
But, the fresh from your hand
Will stand tower
And glower at death and maid fate
And sing the breath
Of your hidden name,
Harvest the best of your sweat
And scratch the sky of eternity
With your last luscious palace.
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