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Rilke's poem Die Konige der Welt sind alt
The sovereigns of the world are old and they will have no heirs at all. Death took their sons when they were small, and their pale daughters soon resigned to force frail crowns they could not hold. The mob breaks these to bits of gold that the world's master, shrewd and bold, melts in the fire to enginery that sullenly serves his desires, but fortune is not in his hire. The ore is homesick. It is eager to leave the coins and turning wheels that offer it a life so meagre. From coffers and from factories it would flow back into the veins of gaping mountains whence it came, that close upon it once again.5
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