Here's another draft poem for my far-future book Songs of Zarathustra:
Hearken how he says, in verse,
That the poets always lie - or worse,
To their everlasting shame,
That they ever vie for petty fame.
Their unbounded vanity
Leads them far from piety;
They live not the holy writ
Whose deed is but to utter it.
I think this might make a fine opening salvo, with its Nietzschean questioning of the entire enterprise of writing a cycle of poems about a poetic philosopher. The reference to the Cretan Paradox merely adds to the fun.
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