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Ignorance

Because they read no books, the villagers cannot believe in labyrinths;
The children come the closest when they listen to the priests’ imbroglio,
More because the church is warm in winter and in summer smells of tamarind --
And buzzing springs and swerving falls -- than what a soul, if simpatico,
Ever could be brought to understand. No distinction between oval and ellipse
Can root itself in blameless limbs, and more than any creed a piece of chocolate
Is the currency in idle hands. When heedless, unschooled puberty eclipses
So sensual an age, blooming hands could not care less to trade a coronet
For those still sophistries. Life swings too eagerly towards what the sage decries
In time-bound tomes as heresy to notice or escape what it implies.

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