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Where might there be
words writ,
fanciful but simply,
of tales embellished
by time and tellers’ wit?

Who might Shakespeare be
but a dead saint
in a weathered, crumbling
tomb; Solomon knew vanity;
Already Romeo archaically wanes.

But words will only be
an inexpensive art
of coloring every deceit.
Silence be golden, conceptually,
in a world exemplar.