Down by the river, there is a half-made house,
Where lives an old and saddened wise bitterness.
It knows everything, it shows nothing.
Nothing but what the eyes can see. And the bitterness in people's hearts blind them to smitters.
Even though there is all to be known in that darkened gaze, roughly shaded by the years and decades of no return,
The bitterness in the sage's eye blinds his thoughts to smitters.
Even though the last desire, that once gave birth to a knowledge of wisdom, was of a now-paled, long lost, pastel-like charity of an unseen smile.
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