How just our fate when,
with all books consumed,
we fail to work our bodies
from our minds.
What incantations spewed
will fill the earth with truth,
recited to a perfect letter,
with no belief in magic?
What song, when scrawled
in a closed book,
can ever bring a tear
or stock a heart with warmth?
We must now make penance
for intelligence with clean feet,
for memorized wisdom
which never breathes.
Sing then, on duty,
on dance, on recitations,
and brim each cup met
with a gift of greater work.
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