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With the lance of He
Who upon the peacock rides
I pierce the hollow heart
of that only sin, sin
which thinks itself apart.

With that one strike,
I have run anger through,
speared the spleen of greed,
split wide passion’s ribs —
the blood runs fast indeed!

Plant that spear,
O Murugan, O knight!
Set it well and ride!
The asuras flee before you,
where sun, moon, & flame abide.