"forbid" poems
Technology, Technology
It runs our lives
From the alarm to the evening TV
Just count your sheep
in the hopes of a six hour sleep
Dragging, pushing, poking and grinding
All for what? A day where we swing away?
Reminise and rewind our lives gone astray
All our friends are easily connected
So why do we feel so alone
Looking for love on a computer screen
We’re all ******* with the naturalist gene
Nature’s monitored via tv screens
With copious numbers of LCD’s, CD’s, Mp3’s to sail the seas
Heaven forbid the ******** sneeze
That’s technology you can’t see.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 8:18 PM UTC
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight
Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape
Summer again
I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening
For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….
She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…
The queen will be safe here
from the rabble
The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
Among these lofty cliffs
Between the raging circuit of the tide
Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
Here lovers learn
the debt of love’s bad timing
“Drink ye all of it!”
--the potion that assigns our sorrow….
She will not sleep—
while I chew this gum-- GUM?
Roll down the window!
Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings
As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity
…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly
Their hands steady the wheel
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
The private gun salesman
divine savior of our life,
liberty, and pursuit of happiness!
Washes his own hands
of the matter,
he has no need for Mary Magdalene,
divine ********** hippie.
Arms outstretched
he sacrifices his own collection
(for a sum of course)
for the anonymous benefit
of a person who
"seems alright".
They aren't Mexican or Black after all!
Or God forbid, Indian!
What would we do
without that Just defender?
Our private gun salesman,
divine savior of America.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
I have a disability
Because it is lack of memory
Others refuse to accept it is
The way my mind shall be
After testing my memory
The PhD of Neuropsychology
Agreed that I suffer with
Cognitive impairment, MCI
My forgetfulness is here to stay
With me until I die
Yes, I can exercise my brain
It may help a bit, still I will forget
So just accept it!! PLEASE QUIT
Telling me to exercise my brain
I know my limitations best, oh Yes!
Everyone telling me to try to remember is really what
Drives me insane!!!
I have tried my hardest everyday
For years I have been fooling You
All in so many ways!
Now the truth has escaped
It is a relief, I must say
I am so tired of playing
The main role on the stage
Every single day!!
Please, all of you quit telling me
To exercise my memory
If this was happening to you,
God forbid, then perhaps you
Would understand me when I say
I am tired, oh so tired, of striving
for just an ounce of memory
Day after day!!!!
So again I say
Please, just let me be Me!
The Ole' lady with memory disability
THIS IS ME, ₩€ND¥°•°°•°•°°•°•°°•°•°°•°•°
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
I tried, x
**
something I get a lot is, “you’re too young to be a feminist.”
too young to be a feminist for you’ve yet to witness a rhyme or reason to believe we lived in a patriarch-fueled
society where the erectile dysfunctions of men are paid for by health care but, God forbid a
woman seeks birth control to help herself
God forbid a woman does anything to help herself
a society where women are taught to be happy with what they can get
yet to be ashamed when they get it
a society where I grew up being taught not to trust a man for he’d hurt me but
taught to have the house clean and his dinner on the table when he got home
a society where a woman in a tank top and a pair of daisy dukes is a ***** who is asking for it”
when the same woman is what’s used to market the male population who are taught that this is the woman they deserve
a society where a woman is unworthy and ***** if she isn’t a ******
but a man is a man so long as he is “getting the hoes”
a society where women are taught to protect their innocence and their virtue
and the society where they are ostracized and ridiculed for not being ready
a society where consent is hopped, skipped, and jumped around and the so called “fact” issued by
Scott Johnson that says men can’t control their issues
a society where a woman’s womb is not her own whether she wants this baby or not
I was taught *** was shameful and wrong unless you were married
but please, give him a baby and keep him satisfied
we glorify teen pregnancies and ignore the accomplishments of women
if I’m too young to be a feminist,
then it’s quite **** sad I can point out what’s wrong in the world.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
My dad says that my generation lacks common sense,
but millennials are well on our way to being
the most educated generation
ever.
We're demonized for idolizing Beyonce' and Nicki Minaj,
but wasn't the generation before us
obsessed with a heroin-addicted cynic
who did nothing to improve the world?
The number of people with
eating disorders,
depression,
and anxiety
are higher than they've ever been.
But lord forbid we take a ******* selfie
and love ourselves for that brief moment.
My generation may not be perfect,
but old people's complaints about us
are getting really old.
After all, they're the ones
that ****** everything up for us
in the first place.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
They say
Tiptoe through the tulips
But where did they say
Smash through
The violets
That are blue
Like my heart
Or the roses
That are red
Like the blood
Pouring out.
When did they say
Make sure to crush
The sunflowers
Once golden
Like my future
But tiptoe
Through the tulips
Heavens forbid
They come to harm.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
Excuse me, sir, your pants are on fire.
Yes, i am talking to you, sir.
This is quite a mess you have made,
you starry-eyed dreamer.
Not that it was perfect in the beginning.
Nothing is.
When my grandfather got old,
he made sure to dress well.
If he was to die on any
given day, he intended to
do it in his Sunday best.
My grandfather died in a
unisex hospital gown.
When i was growing up,
Mom always made sure
i wore clean underwear.
It would be shameful
to die in ***** ones.
Speaking of growing up,
i was raised on Reaganomics.
It doesn't matter which side of
the aisle you stand on these days,
because Reagan defeated communism
through the clever use of money.
When my grandmother was set to pass,
she faced the changing seasons with
poise and dignity. She was
ready to move on, to reunite with
loved ones lost.
My grandmother died in a
unisex hospital gown.
My best friend, Peter, didn't
put much stock in appearances.
He was funny and sarcastic.
We all loved him like a
brother. Peter's mom buried
him in brand new Ecko
gear. He died in boxer
shorts on the floor of a
ramshackle apartment
blue in the face from a
****** overdose.
Thank god none of these
people will ever need healthcare.
Mr. President, sir, i am no
Republican.
i am an American.
You do remember us, don't you?
How silly of me...of course you don't.
You were busy watching your legacy.
i would have watched it better, if
it had been my name
at risk.
My name is all i have.
When Bill Clinton was president,
he lied about getting a
*******
But we forgave him.
It was just a *******
It's not like it was our
privacy or healthcare at stake.
Or our economy.
Have you dreamed about any
of those things, sir?
Or just your legacy?
Who knows?
How well do we ever know anyone?
Christmas is right around
the corner, and i and
others have made you
a fine gift, a lovely suit.
It's invisible.
You probably won't notice.
No matter...
one day you will have to
remove your flaming pants.
To try on your new suit.
Or, god forbid, to put on a
unisex hospital gown.
And then you will finally
see your legacy.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
My hijab protects me.
Dear america, I am not a terrorist.
Dear america, I am not oppressed.
Dear muslim men, I won’t submit
To what you think is appropriate
For me to do, as a woman
Dear muslim women, we need each other.
This is a sisterhood.
We have to stay strong.
To whom it may concern
God forbid I remove my hijab
But if i ever do, it’s not your place
To attack me
To act like I’m less
Because of it.
To everyone watching and reading
My hijab is a protection
My hijab is a symbol of faith
My hijab is an easy ID, I am a Muslim.
My hijab is a big part of who I am
But again, it does not define me.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:04 PM UTC
Most believe happy endings are fairytales
Some have had theirs granted
& that's the reason...
We read too many fairytales
sit & wait for one to come to us
Instead to forbid yourself from writing about one
& make one
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
This is to every sour patch kid
That ever tried to be cool by going off the grid
But you’re only as cool
As that mouth behind your cig
And the thoughts you numb with aspirin
I think we all know
It’s sour
Then sweet
But not before it’s gone
So keep it in your mouth a little longer
And then maybe
Just maybe
We won’t cry every time the bag is empty
And the lights turn out
And all we have left are those little grains of sour
That we still eat anyway
This is to every sour patch kid
That ever wrote “I love you” on your eye lids
Then fluttered your lashes
But closed your eyes for too long
Too long to see that the party was gone
And that you were the only one still pretending to have fun
Lets for a minute pretend that
The red ones aren’t just Swedish fish with a little bit of tang
And that the slang you throw in there
Doesn’t make your words anymore true
But were all gonna scream it anyway
Then maybe
Just maybe when we’re screaming
We’ll forget how to talk
And have to use our hand to say more than
Flipping the bird ever could
This is to every sour patch kid
That only did what they did
Just to say that they could
What society forbid
Well this is how it ends
The bag in which you so snugly live
Is ripped open with teeth
And when that happens
You’re gonna fly in between the
Gear shift and the seat
And then maybe
Just maybe
The hand will be skilled enough to get you out
If you’re lucky enough they even look
But even as messed up as that is
Or even as wasted as Kesha is
She has a point
We are who we are
Sincerely, The Breakfast Club
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
They say having good friends is like winning the lottery,
Well who gave me a fake winning ticket?
Every friend that comes and goes is just a mockery,
Of my undying kindness even for those who don’t return it.
Is it dumb to believe in the phrase “Best friends forever”,
Or am I just stuck in my 2002 kindergarten playground?
People seem to drop me like a bird sheds a feather,
And I am unwillingly isolated by the time I am found.
I was not aware that friends were like snacks in a vending machine,
Picked and chosen when it is most convenient for you.
I guess I am the little pack of crackers stuck in between,
The chips and the Mountain Dew.
God forbid that machine runs out chips and drinks,
Because then you may have to settle for my boring ******* ***
And maybe for once it actually won’t be a jinx,
But it’s too late I am no longer a convenience so I shall pass.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 6:00 AM UTC
Please don’t call me beautiful
when your hands are between my legs,
and god forbid you say it as a seg-way
between you’re so hot
and my caution, your response
you’re sure you don’t want to?
I’m pretty sure the way my body looks,
nineteen and stress-infused with an Oreo belly
isn’t really what you pictured beneath my blouse,
and I’m positive you didn’t listen
to the story about my dad and the bad prom dress
because you cared. It was just sentiment. You said it was beautiful,
but really you wanted me to believe the act
like a description in the Playbill
and ride that trust all the way until the curtain dropped.
Please don’t call me beautiful
when the word ******* is before it
or if we are ******* because making love
is for married couples and you don’t even want me
sticking around for the ****** sunrise that peers
underneath your shade every morning.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m crying—
crack me open and watch the colors bleed
like a painting that hasn’t dried. Admire
the light that peaks through the clear parts
like a windowpane, no blinds.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m laughing,
when I’m reading my favorite part of a book,
when I’m stuffing my face with peanut-butter
pretzel bites and I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks,
and I’ll know you can’t be lying
because I’ve listened to the waves your heart makes
when you’re sleeping and I’ve called your smile
to the surface many times when you’ve tried
to deflect it back inside. You’ll know that
and you’ll know I’m beautiful.
Call me beautiful
when you’re not even trying.
Call me beautiful when you’re by yourself
and the smell of my hair is still on your pillow,
or the memory of how dumb I sounded
singing my favorite song breaks your heart back
to the best little pieces.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
Let me do my work each day;
and if the darkened hours
of despair overcome me, may I
not forget the strength
that comforted me in the
desolation of other times. May I
still remember the bright
hours that found me walking
over the silent hills of my
childhood, or dreaming on the
margin of the quiet river,
when a light glowed within me,
and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the
tempests of the changing years.
Spare me the bitterness
and from sharp passions of
unguarded moments. May
I not forget that poverty and
riches are of the spirit.
Though the world may know me not,
may my thoughts and actions
be such as shall keep me friendly
with myself. Lift my eyes
from the earth, and let me not
forget the uses of the stars.
Forbid that I should judge others
lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of
the world, but walk calmly
in my path. Give me a few friends
who will love me for what
I am; and keep ever burning
before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope. And
though age and infirmity overtake
me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams,
teach me still to be thankful
for life, and for time's olden
memories that are good and
sweet; and may the evening's
twilight find me gentle still.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
So I heard once that there’s always
some gnarly looking carrot
in every bag of carrots
and you’re supposed make a wish on it
if you get it.
But I didn’t have a bag of veggies
I had a jar of Gumby and Poki
shaped gummies.
Finally the day came when there
were only two Gumbys left.
One was bent in half and
smashed together
and the other looked as all the rest had.
I pulled out the sad little gummy and
made a wish
like it was some ugly carrot.
I wished my crush would kiss me,
And giddily I walked to a coffee house
because I was hoping he would be there
even though I sternly told myself that
he had no reason to be there.
I found the coffee house closed and knew
my wish wasn’t happening that night.
I talked with a friend about my woes
and she confessed her heartache.
We smiled and laughed and died
just a little on the inside.
We had hoped that in college we wouldn’t
feel like middle school girls
with unrequited crushes.
The next day he dropped off a fish
(and this is no euphemism
or pretty poetry slang,
I opted to fish-sit while
he went home for break).
After he left, and
feeling more than silly
I took out the last Gumby
and pretended.
I pretended that it was every wish
on a boy I had made
since I realized boys weren’t
completely disgusting.
On my way to class
I held the little gummy in my
frozen, clenched fist
and wished
that’d he’d kiss me before he left.
I made it really specific
because every movie I’d ever seen
with genies in it had taught me that
specifics were key to avoiding
mishap and mayhem.
Obviously, it didn’t come true.
And I feel like I’m back in middle school,
wishing on ugly carrots and stars
that look suspiciously like airplanes.
Everyone has crushes,
and still more wishes.
Why I thought
at the age of nineteen
when the glamour of Disney-endings
and romantic-comedy plots
had tarnished to realism,
that a Gumby gummy prayer
would come true,
well I’m not entirely sure.
Maybe it’s no matter how old you are
there are always ugly carrots
and shooting stars
and fast airplanes
and romantic comedies
and gummies in the shape of
kids’ show characters.
Maybe no matter how disappointed I am
there will always be unrequited crushes
and genies for wishes
and God for prayers
and heaven forbid
hope.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
i wish to kiss her wrists
just like the blades once did;
replace those scars with wisps
of hope life once forbid
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
Welcome to our society.
Where the teens are depressed,
And the students are stressed..
Where people will hate you,
For what you wear and your weight..
Where there's only *** no hugs,
And there is no candy just drugs..
Where we cut form an escape,
And the parents beat and ****
Where laws forbid people of being gay,
And everything is weary and grey...
So I hope you enjoy your visit with society,
Just try not to get depressed and anxiety..........
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl
I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.
A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair
And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
That day, something got into me.
Approaching the corner of 155th
and Broadway on the Upper West Side,
my friend and I were only a block from home.
Either we'd been on a mission for candy necklaces
or bubble gum cigars, from the place where the guy
was always grumpy, never actually scary,
and the sawdust on the floor, the real cigars
in fancy boxes, were something to wonder about.
Or we had just scored our first fresh sugar canes,
one each, and much taller than either of us.
The kindly Puerto Rican green grocer, proud
of his new shop, hoped we'd try the plantains
too, getting a kick out of our delight
in what he'd always known.
The light was red, and we weren't in a hurry.
I just got curious about this trap door on the side
of the old cast iron signal post,
and decided to see
if it would open... and it did.
Smiling to myself, an uncommon, delicious
sense of mischief lighting me up inside,
I calmly flipped a switch.
Instantly, all four lanes of traffic, heading north
and south on Broadway came to a screeching halt.
The feeling of power was intoxicating.
And unforgettable.
Had I been an older kid, had the policeman
who happened by been less lenient, had anyone, God forbid,
been injured, I could have been in some serious trouble.
Injury never entered my mind, and maybe the officer saw that.
All in all, I got away with the only really naughty thing
I did as a child, and still get to smile.
And remember.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
Could it be that our souls have already stumbled upon each other in another existence? One which sets no boundaries and requires no certain standard of love. For there is a sweet familiarity in the flow of your sentences and the heavenly scent of your perfume which lingered even when you’re not around. Maybe too familiar. That even the slightest touch of a hand in the most unexpected moments sends a feeling of connection as though i’ve known you for so long and yet the heavens forbid us to recall.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
The Warden announces; as the Diseased children cower in fear,
The mother stands beside the Warden.
"Evy'body remain calm, The Plague doc'or is 'ere!"
May God forbid; That you ever see that Mask,
Those cloaks, those masks,
those herbs and flasks...
It creeps towards the children; Looming in the silence.
equipped with little mind for medicine, a cane for violence.
Those soulless eyes,
the Putridly herbal aroma close, they despise,
but this masked creature ignores their cries.
The warden feeding mother Lies.
Dimly lit the cold room,
the pungent fume,
''I'll leave 'im to it"
The warden leaves.
but the Doctor stays and silently breathes.
Question on the matter if this Doctor's even Sane,
As it stares upon the child then whips him with the cane.
No Law defies,
the Mother Cries.
Pulling out it's Vials of vial Herbs, this Freak,
Staring coldly around the silent room, pointing everywhere, it's beak.
It passes the two Children pouches of leaves; Mother grieving,
everybody remain Calm, The Plague Doctor is leaving!
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 7:06 AM UTC
Who's **** about their **** You are, Virgo. In fact, you are so **** about your own *** hole that god forbid you ever run out of baby wipes or are unable to scrub-a-dub-dub after your daily **** But of course, that will never happen to you because you have planned out exactly where and what time you are to take a **** If you're working overtime, so is your **** No one can tell your *** hole is throbbing because you have perfected the art of the, *No, a **** is not slipping in and out of my *** hole right at this very moment* poker face. Not only do you have an irrational fear of a ****** *** hole, but you must examine every inch of your **** for any sign of potential disease or parasites.(with gloves on, of course.) Your ruling planet is Mercury, which means you probably know exactly how many times you have taken a **** in your life up until this point. **** *** Your worst ******* nightmare.
Advice: Chill the **** out. The only condition you're suffering from is a mental one and it's called Hypochondria.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
1 When life as opening buds is sweet,
2 And golden hopes the fancy greet,
3 And Youth prepares his joys to meet,--
4 Alas! how hard it is to die!
5 When just is seized some valued prize,
6 And duties press, and tender ties
7 Forbid the soul from earth to rise,--
8 How awful then it is to die!
9 When, one by one, those ties are torn,
10 And friend from friend is snatched forlorn,
11 And man is left alone to mourn,--
12 Ah then, how easy 'tis to die!
13 When faith is firm, and conscience clear,
14 And words of peace the spirit cheer,
15 And visioned glories half appear,--
16 'Tis joy, 'tis triumph then to die.
17 When trembling limbs refuse their weight,
18 And films, slow gathering, dim the sight,
19 And clouds obscure the mental light,--
20 'Tis nature's precious boon to die.
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She's preparing her heart to be broken
And why should she not? Is this not the norm?
These beautiful words so softly spoken
Or should she just let go and be reborn
Too late into an unknown world she stepped
The fear is still there but she can't care now
Edge of the horizon, ready, she leapt
It is too late with this she makes a vow
To fight would be madness 'twould be a sin
Regardless it is worth it to let go
Finally feel the happiness within
Take these four walls down and let the love grow
Now despite her fear there's no turning back
God forbid she's wrong, her heart may turn black
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 9:40 AM UTC
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE—out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—
By the mountains—near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
By the gray woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not—dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
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