And who will deliver us from ourselves
and who will make our strivings upright?
Who will make us die the little deaths-
right shame, right fear, right folly, right hurt?
Who will kiss the lepers,
who will bury all the children?
Who will be the stinging salt
that hurts and heals the wounds?
Who will stand and speak for me
when I have not feet, nor words?
Who will be the fullness
when I am empty-handed?
Who will sow and reap and sow anew,
who will speak and cease to speak?
Who will burn the city down
and build a world from ash?
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