Swift is the child that fills this land, swift they are to chant and shame. Swift is this child, swift indeed.
Swift is the child that fills this land, o swift they are but very little they seem to know. Swift is this child, swift indeed.
Swift is the child that plagues this land, for like a plague of locusts they bring nothing but swift unrest. Swift is this child, swift indeed.
Oh mothers and fathers, swift are your children who know nothing at all of this life but cling to certainty as thought they share of your wisdom. Swift is this child, swift indeed.
But O dear Father, even more swiftly destructive have your children become, if it even be good of me to call them yours. For swift is this child, swift indeed.
Swift, therefore I see no distinction between the serpent and this child, for they all are swift in their deceit, and swift on their bellies. O Father you to whom wisdom belongs, how I mourn with you to see your Children be like this child. For swift is this child, swift indeed.
Like the swiftness of this child swiftly our lives go by, yet many on the outward are like men and women, but truly are but a child. Oh but not as The Children, but this mere child. For this child is swift, swift to destroy, and like their swiftness, they bring swift destruction to themselves and those roaming around, o for swift is this child, swift indeed.
They claim integrity but have no more integrity than a man of robbery, for they too, like this child are swift.
O this land is filled with this child, but O father but few are Your Children, and yours are as calm as a still lake, who bring no harm to any but peace to all who visit it. O for swift they are, swift indeed, and your Children few they are, few indeed.
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