Centum

And when in broken pieces lay

The strings of fellowship

And when at break of sodden day

The sound of cracking whips,

Do all the wise words steal away

And stumbling fools do slip

Into the realm of come what may

And wish they’d had a grip

On what is real, on what to say

And when, just when to seal a lip

For nothing’s soft and gentle sway

Finds answers mid the clamoring yip

And feet of shattering crumbling clay

Falter when they mean to skip

“Sticks and stones,” the children play

But words? Words a soul will rip.

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