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Each
poem leaves more truth to be digested, blended
into
history through the ministry
of
print and speech.
Born
by a revolution, my regime
sprang
from words, made history, held it tight,
dreaded
more truth,
Good
poets dumbed or died or fled abroad.
Only
they knew the truths I silenced
better
than me.
At
last my regime died of dull language.
A
new regime thinks truth cheap, the past unimportant.
The
young agree.
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