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Adeptus
7 November 1941
Brooding eyes, apish browed, What wierd surmise lurks there endowed With formless substance! Thought A gray blurred sphere Ringed and glowing Jagged rents Flashing, twisting Dissolved and warpted Tight coils of hate Clashing, chaotic.
Smooth sweeping girders Looping curves Strange arcs that lead A somewhere vague Stark time is gone And in its place A central fire A bridge of suns All motives and All loves are one To Him whose Will Because is done.
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