The mystic is dead.
The mystic is mad.
He roams the streets in broad daylight
with a lamp, his own lamp.
His lamp has patina in its heart,
He thinks people’s brains have patina.
The mystic is mad, people say.
Why am I like this?
Why am I?
Why am?
Why?
The mystic is mad, people decided.
Autumn leaves consoled the mystic.
Winter followed in due time.
No one saves us but ourselves.
The mystic decided.
And he embraced the cross.
And then there was none.
No more.
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