They disappeared and left their clothes behind,
leaving laughter upon the air.
They followed trails unseen to eyes,
and wrote in short breath what they'd seen there.
I never believed their brilliant prose,
the florid pronouncements seemed too gay.
But what then begged them abandon their clothes,
and stumble upon their hidden way?
Someday they'll find they've presumed too much,
dancing on back with scant little proof.
Their fancies too gifted their ideas too wild,
how can they expect us to credit the truth?
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