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In spring you badly sleep at night
the soul is somewhat restless, sickly.
April. The epoch somewhere at the end.
It’s now just at a bend is creaking.

They say again and still again,
that neuralgia is the cause.
Eat less, drink less – oh, what a prose –
we – and the world have changed with pain.

And they are telling us a tale,
that life is lovely to distraction,
so near is the upshot yet,
when will the soul be burnt in action.

The planet’s gripped by bedlam’s flame,
all round is war, all round is illness.
I’ll come in church – it’s empty in the church.
In the cathedral of the God is stillness.

Amidst the universal battle,
and on the eve of coming doomsday
I’m whispering words of private prayer,
as if another one them says.

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