By the stone rubble of the world’s great ruin, on the Mount of Olives, where the deepest soul did suffer, past the Posilipp of the Anjouine, past the Staufer clan and their acts of revenge, a new cross, a new court of execution, but a place without blood or noose. It swears in verse, passes judgement in poems. The spindles turn quietly: the Fates have sung.
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