in the cold puddles
concentric rings play tag
with the sky flannelled in
shades of grey, soft from
the wind and granite from
the anger of shouted thunder
arguments, the tree's shake
losing what little cover
they have left and stand
stark naked and dripping
on the muddy floor.
the river flows high and
unchecked vomiting brown
bile and wreckage out into
the sea, only for it to become
a puzzle of detrius on the beaches edge
leaving junkheaps and carcasses for
treasure hunters to find....
and still the puddles play
tag with the cold and weeping sky

i still see you
sitting in the sun
holding a pale ale
up in salutation
steel grey hair
flowing
down your back
legs crossed at knee
ankle jigging
up and down
to the beat of
the music
in your head
dressed in "blacks"
with a flash of colour
this time pale lemon
in your hand
a dhurrie, self rolled,
thin and a little bent
smoking gently, the whisp
of it curling in the breeze
today your face is thoughtful
caught up in a memory that brings
the corners of  mouth up
into a wry smile.
i still see you
in the periphery
of my mind
yet when i turn
you are gone..
a memory
playing tag
with my heart

step             off
down
         into
      blood red dust
                                    of
rusted dreamed
                    thoughts
     of steeled determintation
bought                  low by
                    times patient tick

word drought

                     poems        
                                      carcassed    ­      
                about   around
            where here
where                 ....ether

wade through and wade through
this vacant unloved space
           to sit under              
                                             ­                              the  ego skeleton tree
     here to listen
                     to the
    brain bone leavings
                  rattle and sough
in memorie's
             faint primative breeze
       as we  ......await the
..muse...all     monsooning..
  .. soothing         rain  
                                  fall
to come ... festooned....
         with the petrichor
                           fragrance of wild word blossoms and
              newly wrought  
                     thought blooms
until        then
                       i sit drooling,
driveled,
        words into shifting dust
destined to
              fly                     and
     flicker away
        on the
              next worlds sigh

fare well  good bye  adieu
               namaste

till again
              i await
              the soft feathered bliss
         kiss of rain

lips pursed
tip of tongue
out, testing
air quality

head cocked
eye beaded
swivels
and back

legs windmall
forward motion
and stop with slight
over reach, stillness
achieved, basking now
under sun lamp

body glistens,
muscles settle
into contours
of tree branch

little gecko
eyes unblinking
in your cage
of glass

you came home, the other day
blessed, with a boon
from a friend's market garden.
the first
strawberries,
of the season

sweet little ruby jewels,
kissed by the sun

how we feasted,
we selfish two
popping those lovlies
past pursed lips,
to crush the flesh
between the tongue
and teeth
letting the juice
run..
down..
the back..
of our throats.
grinding the seeds, macerating the flesh
in a ****
of ****-sweetness
and
afterwards
we
kissed,
nibbled,
and ******,
the last taste
from each other's
lips, chins, fingertips.

...and that led ...
                       to other..
                       ...un-writable..
                                              fun.

tea leaves sit soggy, sad
forgotten  at the bottom

of the cup

leaching, bitter tannins
now, forgetting the life they led

no one willing to read their fortune
no spilling of the secrets
they never truly had

just detrius now
from dust to dustbin
the cycle of a tea leaf
long or brief,
happy or sad
a parable, in hot water

once green and lush in colour
in essence, verdent's liquid fame
once used and now just *******
every life has limit, every limit claimed
as we sup, we suffer the race of time
running through our fingers

clamouring at our mind

one day we too,
will be *******
waiting for the dust,
one day we too
shall leach our liquids
in the unforgiving  dust

as the tea leaf's
sacrifice
their essence
to the swirling hot water creating
a glorious steam

i look at the camelia's
pink green and unruly
next door.
i can't help but, think.
they are in serious want
of deadheading....

from the teapot, blue
pours a dark rendolent brew
full of tall stories

ten n' two past three,
my mind slips from it's
domesticated fetters,
flys free into the star stitched night..

wandering, effortlessly
to climes of restless insanity
and step-stoning away from
garnered life.....

....it finds the scurrying creatures,
hovel featured and scrawny
eyes ......beggars @ the feast.
tired of the hide-away life...
wanting just a moment's grace.... a smidge of light...
pickpockets of slumber's ease.
abram, palliard, mendicant.
all asking for alms to ease their plight...

all.... wanting succour in the dead of night.
.....yet, at this time,as the darklight,
thinks and hopes desperately for dawn...

....i find my mind poor.. ....careworn and a cupboard bare and paltry...

...so again my night's thoughts . ..wend their way home hungry and sad....
black and grey wraiths,
of thoughts...... i never really had....

his tenure,
on this earth...
is done.
sad is the sky today,
as id in memory
and the fields he planted,
miss his loving care.

to his family scattered,
but loving,
the calls were made.
his only request,
reiterated to all.

please bury me,
in the shade.
i toiled my lifelong
days,
in sun and rain.
let me rest eternal,
in the shade,
of the old ghost gum.

so now he lies among
the roots of the ivory and
silver barked tree.
looking down,
on the market garden
of  lettuce, carnations
and snow peas.

and his family scattered
but loving
are hopeful
he is finally at ease....

as they stand and
remember earlier days
and grieve the loss,
of their link to the land
and think sadly but fondly
of the man who had
the greenest of hands.

ten words, to sum up
this magnificent morning
                      
                      feels...mise­rly

Years
Learning to talk
Learning to read
Falling in love with words
Playing with,flirting with language
And now.....now.....you give me ten words
To describe it....ALL.....where is the equanamity in that!!!!

here i am...
nailed to the cross....
of elephant hide.... memories
.....walking the slack rope
balanced..... between
if ..and ....why..
used to be...... watering
a ducks back .....was making
....a water feather slide
but now....... it just *****
up my equalibruimal tide......
making sense now?....
...........not ****** likely..
spinning words....
..on empty tequila shot glasses
  .....while student one
and student fourteen .....are
making moons with they *****
......so the mouse squeaks
memory roars......been here b4
time to climb.............down....
........off the cross.....jump on... .......off the wire
..let it go ......was just.... teenage .........angst v desire

walk away  now...get some water.....
..go home get to bed ....or the morning will be simply .....hangover.....
.....slaughter..... city .. rimed
with lime ...and salt.. and   tequila .....worm-fed fears...
so....listen ...well  ....to the squeek of the mouse......

you are tethered here now
by just a few threads
gossamer thin
that flex and strain with
each laboured breathe

soon  the last of  them
will  fray and break
and you will be free
to float away

to see and enjoy
new vistas
to be
unencumbered
by that, that drew
you down into the dark

then untethered
you will fly to the heavens
like a bird, small against
the blue, blue sky

or perhaps more akin
to a dandelion seed
be taken by a gust of wind
to a new environ
mayhaps, a cliff top
by a shining blue sea
and there to take seed
and grow again and again
whilst the sea kisses the sand

Ragged breath
pushed through  lips
paperthin and dry

Clouded moons
in once sparkling  eyes

Skin of face
folded and creased
by years of laughter

Age has wearied you
beyond repair

Your first foot treads
heavily upon heavens stair

And in this pastel room
the reward for a life of care

As we come to usher you away
to your final, hopeful jubilee day

All have come, none have missed
the opportunity to thank you
for, the gifts you gave...

One word of kindness, from your lips
ripples through the lives you touched
and all your students learnt well
to live, love and give freely,
of caring humanities touch.

In this pastel room, we stand,
touching one last time,
the gnarled and giving hand

And when we leave, we do weep
for loss, but also joy....
knowing your soul does keep
to the pieties of love.

So in the days to come,
know your grace will live on
through lives and generations
your teaching will be the yardstick
to which our hearts are measured
YOUR WORDS, YOUR LIFE,
REMEMBERED AND TREASURED

old.... still,
kind,  
strength steps in,  
new paradigms to be created
all in long, past passion

yet still able,
yet ever will able,
to grow wisdom,


they...out there beyond
find new a rythmn
and  purpose
is it to be....

on all varigated,
arangements..... a new twist
perhaps....
some order, to the paradox
of the aboves.

what our...
never-ever-never world
should be,
we are a realm of
be all, end all, have all.

elephant's, we are to faded parchment memories.
the  mouse within,
loves a quiet,
realm of the wise....  
and careful, considered...
thought

but you...you....
fall beneath the thunder
of my steps...
in vain attempts,
to gain insight into
the hyperbole of my elephant's spinning dance

and the back scratching monkey's  never silent thought's
initiating as they be,
into the colour spectrum
of the latest...
popular...populace, fearful fancy.

be quiet as needs be,
says the mouse
the world will...
awake to wisdom,

spend fruitful time...
awaiting the calm to break

never is it above strength
allowed
the roles, the gifts,
we are given.

be  in on the  elephant's  new rythmn
and far above the monkeys purile, speculation

need, need, needs,rememeber awlays... quiet, desperate passion,  
and to fall gently
beneath the winds of change

be, find, do,
the extra-ordinary
see the kindness in the eyes
of all you encounter
and unfailingly,
return
the hopeful glace

burn, burn the oldest order
set the worlds,
infinite whorls......aright

and then
sing the stars
to sleep...
in the purple,
winkled, wrinkled hours
of the calm and pristine
shadowed span of the night.

the art of mercy,
is not a hard thing,
to learn...

like pontilism,
you start...
with one small dot,
one act of kindness,
a smile, a word, a change
of heart,
to this add more,
build a picture of caritas....
shaded with compassion
and thoughtful deeds.

paint then, a new canvas
using, broad strokes of time
and heartfelt tears....
be magmanimous,
with colour,
care and altruism,
be bold and brave
with actions,
that come from
your need,
to see this world
as a legacy of love....

then, when you have mastered that,
take up your pencil
and draw,
in fine lined, forbearance and clemency,
a self portrait of forgiveness,
for we all need mercy....
and reminders,
to be of a heart most merciful...

then take your palette,
and new found skills
and become
an artist....
of the street,
teaching, giving showing mercy
at every turn or bus-stop,
every street corner....
under bridges, in tall towers
scrawl mercy, on walls
and sidewalks....
paint the town....
                   paint the town.....

the art of mercy....
               is simply,
                             beautiful,
               to behold,
                             at work,
               it changes,
                           just about,
               everything......
for the better...

be quiet and still
small and silent
and you will see
wonderous things

these were the sage
words of my grandfather

once a month,
we would go to
a grove in the woods
and learnt the art
of  patient watching....

i remember the first time
i saw an echidna rustle by
and the slow movement
of a blue toungue lizard
moving with the sun...

rabbits and foxes
wallabies, a koala
backing down a tree

but the day that still
delights, is the day
as we sat still and quiet
butterfly's alighted
by the hundreds to
become a carpet
of pure flickering enchantment

and i knew this was life....
at it's finest....and most wonderous.....

on our after afternoon
ramble
we marvel at the beauty
of the autumn trees

their leaves show such
glory in their dying days
before they fall
and wither away....

i could give you colours
ten shades each of green,golden, amber, russet, brown.
but my words would be
a paltry insult to the wonder
of the falling crown

soon the trees will be stark
and bare.....sculptures against the blue and pewter
sky..

but my good god, you taught
them well, the art of an awe inspiring goodbye.

all the elephants are rapping
box beats and toe-tapping
mapping words and rating states

all the foxes are crying
for my sake, stop your lying
we aint buying, what your styling

all the bears are wondering
why the foxes be mussing
when the food be going cold

all the tigers be  chillin
while the bears be fillin
the foxes be fussing
and the elephants
just don't care
as the beat goes on....

ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation
    Against thy strength,
    Distance, and length;
Do what thou canst for alteration:
  For hearts of truest mettle         
  Absence doth join, and Time doth settle*


While she sits in her chair
vaguely following the conversation
she also drifts away in time and inclination
to care for the important things we discuss
in many ways she is beyond those cares
her decision has been made
and we but sound and fury
isee she is now more complete
and composed than of recent days
for her there is hope in the path she takes

i cannot begrudge her the choice she has made
as she said her age and medical disposition
means she is already walking that road.

but as daughters do I peer forward even now
and feel the lack of her grace in daily events
Even today as we make plans, her abscence
whilst still being here is a vast gap of darkness
that we all avoid with plattitudes and brightness

In our private hearts we do rail against the
happenstance injustice that befalls the matriarch
we struggle with the alteration to the long march home
we come together to watch as we fall apart in small
and large measures...

In our minds we pledge the best,
in our hearts we pray for speed
We know she has forever etched
herself into our bones and being
but we quietly sorrow at her growing
absence...apart from her memories
and leavingd


 *His mind hath found
    Affection’s ground
Beyond time, place, and all mortality.         
  To hearts that cannot vary
  Absence is present.

it is christmas
we sit laughing admist
an **** of wrapping paper
eating croissants and red fruit compote....(family secret recipe)

watching our boy cycle
about on his new red trike
with nana ensconced in
her new whicker chair...

the air full of carols and christmas cheer ....

later, we will again open
our house to those with
orphans and the festivities
will begin.....

but for now....it is us....
wishing all of you
the best of the season...
be blessed...be safe...
be happy....
                 merry christmas

some days
the bunyip
comes
to
rip
tear
and rend
the
dreams
from
your
flesh
and
the
flesh
from
your
soul

somedays
the bunyip
just
comes
and takes
you whole

but most days
he sleeps
in the billabong
everdeep
in the stolen
lives he
has chosen
to keep.

colin, was a camel
who liked to roam

a two ****** fella
sort of brownish yella
decidely cool and mellow

had an eye on the road
always moving forward
albeit at a somewhat leisurely pace
and always with a goofy
smile on his face.

never looked back
and that's a fact
often found straying
from the beaten track
never in lack
of a kind word or to
incredably pragmatic
in his point of view

when asked his opinion
on the world today
stated emphatically
ya just gotta hope
and pray....that
and stay outta
the big boys way.

colin the camel
who liked to roam
had eleven big brothers
who stayed at home

colin was wise
most were twiçe
his size
and the rest
had habits
that attracted flies.

so colin kept
more than one step ahead
cause if they caught up
with him
colin was dead....

cherry blossoms float
delicate pink white cloud flakes
blushing plant snow-fall

the cherry wood box
sits on the mantle
it is a reminder
of his love
handmade, upon a lathe
from a burl of an old sweet cherry
it is smooth as silk to touch
of a deep yellow redish hue
carved to look like the rounded back
of a cat curled in on itself, asleep
the rings once present in the tree
give the box the look of a tabby cat

inside the love notes we share
it has over time become a letterdrop
today....his note...invites me to
a night of gentle but thorough  love
my note....says...yes....please

in the middle of the night.
when your snores,
snorts and grinding teeth
serenade, my fancies flight
i choose, to love you....

in the cool of the dawn.
when you, leave your
towels on the floor
and your beard's
shorn-shearings, in the sink,
but kiss me gently, as you go
i choose, to love you....

at noon, when i open
my lunch, to see the gingerbread,
gone, replaced with the
words from "our song."
i choose, to love you.....

and at the descent of the evening.
when, instead of putting
our boy to bed,
you fill his head, with dragons and monsters
i choose, to love you........

and when i say,
i choose, to love you............
....... i lie.......
              there is no choice....

i am yours,
till....
the end of....
                      forevermore...

i write poetry
from the collective,
that resides within my mind

they gather often,
at the water cooler
or for coffee, tea
and a bit of a natter..

all my idio's and syncranicities
my ego,
and my shy shuffling humble-bumbler
the flambouyant quirke,
the little girl memories

all get the memo and out they come.

earth mother, surfer chick,  
daughter of despair,
moderator, instigator,
wanna-be litigator
acerberic premenstrual ditzbitch,
all represented there.


so in the end,
what you get to see;
are the minutes from the meetings,
or the gossip from the gatherings
the intimate murmurings...
from the musings.
of the legion, that ...
collectively
call themsevles
me.

we went shopping this morning,
then to the movies.
all the time,
the little voice in my head
was telling me,
i had forgotten
an important chore.

we were gone three, four hours.
the little voice niggling away.

got home just now
and remembered
as i opened the front gate.

forgot to lock the catflap
gus's in/outdoor.
well, by now, its far too late.

you see gus,
the little grey cat
is a collector, not a
hunter of things.

if god forbid,
he were a dog.
he would be one
of those retreivery things.

he finds and he brings,
normally to his food bowl.
so now, we are in the kitchen
and were taking stock.

one mangled penny lizard
and two other tails.
one drowned moth,
one feebly swimming still
three dazed cicadas,
one belly up and by
the sound a few more yet
to be found
a praying mantis, sans one claw
and something else,
mushed into the floor
a magpie feather,
but,(thank god) not the bird
our little grey cat,
flat out on the mat.
it has been a big morning,
no doubt about that.

he sleeps on, oblivious.
as we his minions,
clean up his mess,
as best we can.
from experience the lizards,
find their own way out.
the cicadas, we find,
when they sing
their discordant song,
reminding me, all day long
my little voice,
not ever wrong.

three boys
small in stature
big in heart
sit,
bottoms  perched
on grey concrete curb
heads together
mouths,
going hell for leather
discussing weighty things


in their hands, the world
and thick dripping slices
of red, red watermelon

this day
we come together
we congregate
we stand together
from different nations
we gather, in this place
to mourn, to weep
to say, to pray for no more
no more the innocent.....
we this congregation
made from different
colours, different races
different religions and creeds
stand in quiet hope and grace
trying together to put in place
an understanding, that leaves
no man, woman  or child
thinking that the death
of another person,
is a valid way to make
a political or religious statement

we stand together and weep
and pray for all those who have
become or have been made pawns
to this style of rhetoric...

silence
sadness
regret
remorse
fortitude
and defiance
permeate
the
bricks
made
by
convicts
for this
old church
so far far
away
from
english
shores
and on
the pews
so narrowly
wrought
they
listened
to the
chaplain
say
heaven
was the
place to
seek
repentence
was the
key....
and on
the cobbled
floor
they
scratched
their marks
before
they
made
their way
back to
the convict
barracks
the hell
of each
and every
day....

on my couch...
(temporary hall of justice)
sprawls.....
one batman,
two supermen,
a flash.
and an age-ing green lantern.

and me in the kitchen
a mere mortal
making mini pizza's
and chicken wings

even hero's have got to
eat...

it is the day
after
rememberance day

the day when....
those who fought
in jungles and desert sand,
in the air and on the sea
who fought for king, country
and land.

those who....
stood shoulder to shoulder
proud and straight and strong,
on parade grounds,
before,
embarking off to battle....

those who....
watched mates,
fall, suffer and die...

those who....
pulled the trigger
amd killed men,
who in basic essense,
where just like them.
who had swethearts, families, lives...

those who......
returned,

this is the day after rememberance

this is the day, they begin
to, try to forget....they pack
away, the horror, the panic,
the regrets....
pack them down,
pack them down,
into a tight little ball
so they can move on, move
forth....
walk in the world
of all the other, brighter
every days....

this is the day....this is the day...this is the day....
to begin to forget anew....

She stood,
at serene attention,
her frailty forgotten.
face made alien,
to most, by the nature
of the disease.

Oh! but the smile,
beamed lighthouse bright.
as she brought forth her
frail hand,
to recieve the parchment
paper. Her Doctorate.
The soft hat glowed,
velvet, indigo blue,
in the autumn sunlight.

The crowd that had, expanded to twice it's normal size,
for just this special person.

Stood in a wave of love.
and the graduation day,
became,

The Day of Sue.

As we whooped and hollered and stamped and clapped,
the tattoo, of our loving respect.
As tears streamed, unchecked,
down one thousand faces.
She beamed and bowed
and left the stage.
One last time.

these are the days we live by
bemoaned by youth
with ether coated fingers
scoffed at by geriatrics as the
wind their wristwatches
and we in the middle boomers post and pre...
wring the blood from each hour...
looking back, to hard memory
looking forward to retired
ecstasy
we live by these days,
waltzing through.....not
but plodding mostly
some days in ourstep
a skip, a jump, a hop...
each generation eyeing off
the others
and finding lack and want
when needing to step back
step up and take a gentle overview...
and taking up some slack
so the line... from begining
to end don't droop somewhere in the middle
recreating primodial soup
big bang or no.... generation
a to xy and z  all  gone back
to history.....
these are the days to turn it
around.
these are the days, compassion still can be found
these are the days, my friend
these are the days...
close...so close.. to the (b)end

fires all about
sky orange
not from flame
but refracted light from
smoke so thick
you can gather it
in your hand

the flames miles away
for us but for some
on their doorstep
devouring house

ash falls like snow
and sits in drifts
up against firetruck tires

men and women
volunteer warriors
return soot black
and exhuasted
to rest before
returning
to the front

devastation
of wildlife corridors
devastion of small towns
live's lost and broken

and it is still only spring

here i am

9 degrees celcius
dragging bins to the curb
breath frosting clouds
feet cringing from cold earth
muttering quiet obscenities
trying not to inhale trash perrfume
looking up to see sunrise colours dance
waving to brave/stupid morning walkers
thinking early birds are overrated
hearing  the resident kookaburras laugh
thinking caffiene, caffiene,  caffiene

here i am

and tonight it is
the elder, mother god
of which i speak....

she  snores and snuffles
in the lazyboy chair
slumped awkward
and sombulant,
akin to a ragdoll,
carelessly,
tossed aside,
after a day's hard play.

and it is in the cracks
and crinkles, both large and minute that craze and track
accross her well worn,
well loved face
that i see,
the god-dust...
lingering.

and as i gently,
place a woolen wrap
over her tired old body.

i take a moment...
to give thanks and
worship,
her hard earned diety.

and the mothergod...
slumbers, snoringly on.

wandering the almost deserted beach
linen slacks turned up to
the knees and a flowing
shirt that flags out behind her.
hat in hand she stoops and rifles through the firm tideline sand and deftly flicks her treasure into a plastic blue bucket.  her feet shift to accomodate the salt water wavelets that play tag
with her manicured toes.
she glances sideways at the sea
judging time and tide
as she gathers her bucket
of pipis
destined for the dinner table.

the tip of my toe
kisses the edge of the door
causing it to swing closed
displacing the motes of dust
so that they dance with abandon
in the shafts of light
and the smell of old books
rises with them, that smell
that takes me to so many places
and  I smile as  I remember
all the friends I made with
make believe faces.

how they shaped and moulded me
those writers of old, how they made me
curious and bold, taught me to question
what I was told, entertained  me not once
but ten- fold ten, way back when, I was a child
bright but shy, my paper bound friends
gave me a reason why. and sometimes how
to turn the page and find the next chapter

the dust settles and the fragrance diminishes
but the smile remains....remembering the,
then, sitting in the now....watching my friends all
taking their bow....before fading back into
the recesses of my  mind..

i have been attacked
on another poetry site
because i found a
baby plagierist....

it is of no matter
really...
a storm in a teacup...
i only mention it here
because...
the logic of the this cyber ****,
was so very ludicrious.

among the swearing
and none to inventive ways
i should go **** myself
was this little gem....

"and stop using a dictionary
to make yourself look smart"

now...i am honest in saying
none of the ranting had affected me up to this point....

but this...just left me...
       .... rolfing.....

as poets....is not that part of
our credo...is the dictionary
not one of our basic tools.

anyway..just thought i would share this
as an example of the genius
minds that take up trolling.

the demidiety
of the household,
demands
the sun....
he craves for to bask
in glorious heat....
and have,
the world adore....
his corrugated, gargoyled  blue-grey skinned beauty.
as well it should...
he is....
after all....a rex....
of the mau, bast,  line.

and me, his  loyal
human factotum....
i am here to....
           open the blinds...

sometimes the god
would fold his wings
                  kenneth slessor*

sometimes...
the god would,
fold his wings,
so as
to look less
terrible...

for when,
he stood,
with wings
outstretched,
spanning the heavens
width,
the strain...
of holding the stars
aloft
would show upon his
face,

a grimace of agony,
would crease and mar
perfection's smile.

so, sometimes
he, the god of,
heavenly light,
would fold his wings
and close his eyes,

so as not to see
the stars,
fall from the skies
and the dark night
encompass the world....

at these times
he chose, to be deaf
to the cries...
of the lesser beings,
as he rested from
the weight of might...

then resolute
he, the god,
of heavenly light
would stretch out his wings
of a mottled indigo hue, gather up
the stars and begin anew...

for what else is a,
god to do?...

Captain's Log,
rough seas this morning
as we sailed into
Port Hangover
first mate Asprin taking double shift
as is galleymate Coffee. Unable to make headway against megrim winds.
Also having difficulty navigating nausea reef,
may need to run aground
on Throwasickie island
as vision is becoming blurred.
Put present difficulties
down to attack of tannins, whilst sailing
wide red wine sea,
last watch.

so the bodohggedies
danced their dance
under the soogothle tree
and in their minds
they sang sigines
of  depopple lines
and made the world
fleaegopple

then the caturnaps
made jackgnondle pies
and recited zungundes
of yeesterways and
told gobnibbittts
imogabble lies
to make them
flabhouter away

and when the great day
of Ubuinaqa was almost done
the teopssangwars
gave chant to the
promise of Gosbingilia
in formal
Datulach ligalibilate
and all Phfidugimea
around sat and listened to
the haquisalical sound,
sighing with
mneuss and saeszfedi