Some centuries of troubadours,
Minstrels and bards have closed the
doors
To certain mindsets, certain thoughts,
Kept us from knowing what we ought.
They've used our ears to blind our
eyes,
So we take foolishness for wise.
They don't need wool. They merely sing
Of sacrificing everything
For mere moments, flights of the heart,
and many call this scheming “art.”
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