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Your intellect is just a hotch-potch

Your intellect is just a hotch-potch
of guesswork and thought,
limping over the face of the earth;
wherever they are, he is not;
they are contained within his creation.
Man and his reason are just the latest
ripening plants in his garden.
Whatever you assert about his nature,
you are bound to be out of your depth,
like a blind man trying to describe
the appearance of his own mother.
While reason is still tracking down the secret,
you end your quest on the open field of love.

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