I‘ve long since learned the lines prescribed,
Measured the mind-ways that must be observed,
Rituals recalled, planted by rote,
Formulas falling, foals from their dams,
And often recited them. Each has its aim,
Purpose for the people it presses its way.

They make up a mask I must wear in the world,
Face-saving façade of fluid appearance,
Selected for scenes whose steps are determined
By directors long dead and gone into dust.
Heavy their hands are, hard on the shoulders,
Firm in their grip as Grendel’s grim ending.

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