Misanthropic melancholy strikes at the heart of the hermit,
And he packs his few possessions, smiles slowly and softly sighs:
The hermit’s decision isolates him, and he spies
Humanity with contempt, hate, envy – loneliness is the culprit
That gives life to these paradoxes, for how can it
Be that man can be so good, so bad? Man cries,
Yet at the next moment his anger flies
Like sparks from a blacksmith’s forge, and splits
All standing in the way – whether it be of beauty
Or menace matters not, as the evil juggernaut
Continues its deadly path; deadly because such hate is key
Only to destruction, for it clouds all sensible thought;
And the hermit smiles slowly, sadly, for he can see
No matter what he does, a man he will always be.

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