John, John, belly laced with locusts and honey shouting the hot hills down striding the Word into all those preoccupied hearts shy of repentance, your dry voice booming in the wilderness dropped with a gasp as the quiet one waded the waters baring his unbaptized head. Your prophecies, bounding for centuries among the companioning rocks, meet us at boulders' end still supple with meaning for all those divining in the desert after the hidden source.
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