On this anchored beach
That makes a poet's grave,
Some blood dripped south
And changed its shape.
Ignorance connected us,
The land and it's new kin
That guide my hand
To the square steering wheel.
Uncorrupted crops
And leather-skin zeal
Are woven together
Like the bonds of true faith.
And I can't help but wonder
If they would side with me,
Me and the holy see
In this humid depression
That makes him a fool,
And me a disgrace.
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