In which they are hidden
There’s no power of healing
The things that are forbidden
A little, tiny, very small
Peeking through the wall
Short, not very tall
The most whimsical of us all
Power we cannot see
The ghastly things are up for a walk
The prisoners are we
Suddenly we’re not able to talk
A dried fiend,
A false end,
At least it can make us understand
All the faces we won’t see
All the places in which we cannot be
For all, we can’t make ourselves free
- - -
- - -
/Oraklet
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