The idiot

A girl makes you the idiot you are , against
The stone-pelting of children who will love you
On your grave, their flowers sprinkled as if rain
You are the bright idiot weighed down by love
A diamond pin you will sell for a little girl
Who loved you in delicate hanging of five minutes
On a scaffold of death, the priest of a crucifix
Who will say absolutely nothing for your Christ
Life comes to the idiot in fits, paroxysms of joy.

(Reading The Idiot by Dostoevesky)

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