it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Humiliation, the art of having been
One; whose insides were all but strewn
About the place; cast before each face
Of man, a moment's span, a space
Infinitesimal, that small is required
To see, And be with insides fired
Brittle clay, glazed this way and that
Embossed, perhaps lost like a scat-
-ter of golden leaves, or bad heaves
ought, to help when one perceives
one small, a pall cast o'er the eyes
of the soul, or a gambol that lies
in the feet, did one stop to greet
such a man? And in sun or sleet
or snow, or rain, go - but rewind
and see that poetry for the mind -
- is just all of these.

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