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micropatterns of nature 

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Can you hear the pipes and drums,
can you see the jesters dancing?
Right in the middle Magister Hans,
in his blackened robe, much prancing.

At father Rhine’s coal-tarred shore,
buffoons meet from every standing,
carry a colourful lantern galore,
a file of fools, just never ending.

What is this traditon’s gist?
Is it mere old celtic witchcraft,
arisen from mystical mist?
Where else floats the folly raft?

Can we find foolish driving,
in common-place and politics?
If yes, why should we be striving,
to suppress massive critics?

Are there just too many courtiers,
who like caballa and double-dealing?
Instead to live, they just are portièrs,
love grand facades, but lack true feeling.

Who looks for honour in his life,
must prevent all make-believe.
Then, one day, he may arrive,
that fame, and respect, he will retrieve.