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. Surely, the
poet deserves an account less treacherous, less indifferent,
less ignorant. But I grow bitter again, galled by the fading
light in my chambers and the endless dripping of the
faucets on the south wall, placed there generations ago for
Reorx knows what purpose but to gall me with their
dripping. I shall fix them this instant; mine is a long and
unbearable story, made even less bearable by the perpetual
accompaniment of water torture.
As I sit again, I mistrust the passage above,
the self-pity that you, my philosophical
fellows, may well read into my complaints of
neglect, of poor lighting, poor plumbing. I am
not a self-pitying gnome, a whiner; my duty is
to the name and reputation of Armavir,
regardless of my discomfort, of the water
knee-deep in these chambers, of the scant
light in the chamber from the holes through
which, in a far better time than ours, wires
and helmets dangled with hope and promise.
His biography and the notes toward an
annotated text of his poetry will be my
testament, the testament of our people that
the tides of history shall not overwhelm us
before we recover these songs as our own.
II. Of Armavir The Poet
A poet is not born but made, as another Gnomish
philosopher once said,9 and our Armavir was no exception
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