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Not ungrateful

Look at that Moon, the bloated wretch, Grinning on high, while we Peer up like fishes From the planty deep. No beacon either, just a broken Mirror, scattering a little Of the true light back - Crumbs out of loaves. But friendlier for that; Easy to fix on And draw near to. Sun, You gave us everything, We know. And we don't Mean to be ungrateful; It's just hard to love A light that burns our eyes.