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I am my own chariot and warrior
Winning battles without collecting enemies’ lots
It is queasy If my quiver is full of breathless warriors
What sound of gong is sweet for the dance?
As you stepdown from the cloudy hilltop
Let cavalry full your pocket
And your shoes like the serrated teeth of iron blade
Come, child and take me out of this shack of barrenness
My hope is built on nothing else
Than to have you on your mother’s lap
To see you suck the earthly milk
And grow to feed the foes with sour wines with me
