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who mourns for finisterre now,
and who will remember her?

a shipping forecast of mortal sins
and the heart drowns
and the mind swims
and the legs ache
and the eyes dim.

yet still i hope that i am more than the sum of my failings,
more than the sum of my fears.
these tears, this detritus, this fluvium
against which, the drudgery of prayer seems ineffectual.
Like painting the forth bridge;
this is not done now.
the function instead performed by a once and for all sacrificial covering.

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