In this art the meadow was full of animal, she was the heart.
The rats had disappeared in their own guilt, and each read that
in his preciousness. We began to share, the tail of the waters,
and the exchange turned. The old life was scarred, but the tears remained, woven into the granting. Beloved, do not hurry in this silent course.
The East will return in the reds of winter, it will wash again, wash away waste. A man will come one day, he will guard you, he is the one with the end of threads. Yet he too will struggle, arrows shoot through him like warts. And his hard shares die. But he is divided, he has made a point, ends by drawing a star.
The shadows were his sores, his performance will be tangled in dew. Heads will become haters, and wars will come. The dew will not let itself disappear, and everyone will struggle, hear, but you must know; the shadows live under the white. Take Heading, hang the wreaths, hang them all outside.
And finally I ask you; Why was it the earth that stared, rats that washed the sewers, and why was the thread stripped of its yarn, was the shaving past gone, and why was everything so good, to be traded in the end?