One who hides from the sun .
Rushes to the bullyrush where softly the wind weaves magic/reeds ìnto protesting spells of endeavor.
In the shadows of willoes
hang the serpents of time/chance waiting on deliverance .
Weathered/weavers form the ultimate slow living of a textiled existence .
Colours mix/matrix green of envy , poetically purple/pride , and somber blue/desperation of fireflies in the nights/flight .
Off/on , off/on , and . . .
No one can tell me of the taste of death . I wonder/wonder , sweet or sour .