East of Bedlam, my friends read the paper
At the reception in my honor.
I myself have come early, hoping to taste
The blush of laughter, your sweet wine.
Accepting pardon, I am like the moon
That rises before dark.
The moonlit desert abides,
Worried that you praise me too much.
The party breaks up and some are convinced
That I was a sacred desert, perhaps a moon
Too exalted to mourn.
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