Works are Dead Rock
»Works« are dead rock, sprung from resounding chisel,
When the master is at work, chipping away at his living self.
»Works« announce the mind as pupas announce the butterfly:
»Look, it left me behind – lifeless – and fluttered away.«
»Works« are like reeds, Midas' whispering reeds,
Spreading secrets long after having ceased to be true.
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