Alas I found no solace, nor comfort in the libretto of this ode.
Lost in the translation, a missing thought eludes apprehension.
Oblivious of the exacting demands, it continues to elude my grasp.
Vain was my ambition, to think I could create thus and embrace it.
Elusive like the fox hounded by the pack, it can not be found.
Left in its wake; a revolution of half-truths and propagandas.
Yet still its formation seems so near at hand.
Patterns start emerging, from a mist of poise and self-belief.
Orchestrating my own demise I am, for surely none continue beyond perfection.
Enlisting the bard’s gift, I place forth the hidden meanings.
Momentous was the juncture where time stood still and a poem was created.
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