Trials at Sonnets


We are the cultivators

Interpreters of dreams

Wandering by you traitors
And sit by vacant streams
World-users and forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the hunters and the takers
Of the world, it seems.
A sparrow always flies,
It's bound to hit the ground.
And you, my dear, are full of lies
Your eyes, they make no sound.
Advisors laugh, a peasant cries:
The king is falsely crowned,
A village ran by tyranny
and narcissistic clowns.
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