O September, what can words write to such horrible deeds?
I went through the merriest moments while you were here;
Diving to collect the seashells and finding twigs for reeds,
But you have altered your gifts, or were my eyes not clear?
With no guilt I gain this and to this I must stay at my word,
My destiny worked his play and he has fired his charm;
At such conspiracies how can one keep quiet his sword?
Yet, I did and held a paint brush and drew on my face: calm.
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