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Traveler Aug 2015
Sweet eyes aglow
So kindly she smiles
My heart's been ridden
A million miles

In unison with time
The dust of day descends
Somewhere inside
We could all use a friend

In shadows of thought
Our psyche embraces
In the pulse of a smile
A glimpse of true faces

One last smile
Of pleasant farewell
So subtle the mind
As the heart is fulfilled...
TT
Re-po
Chris Saitta Jun 2
Fall is an empty street in Rome,
Of byways of dry-leaf stone and moth-haunted hours,
Of market stalls with their over-haggled and fingered rinds,
And melons moiled over and palmed and bruised.
The light blows like once-told ripeness from the basket of fruit.
Lazhar Bouazzi Mar 2017
A rugged sidewalk cried hard by the way-side;
Its fissures could not hold their tears anymore.
A puny man pushed a red cart in the tide
Down a darkling, narrow street in Salammbô.*
He mumbled to the waves on his way to the market
As he gasped behind his laden chariot.

His merkabah bore many a lost things
Which he had found buried in the quicksand.
Among them a fountain pen and a helmet,
A pair of eyeglasses, and a trumpet.
I wondered, gazing at the old man’s washed face:
"Will this worn-out scene ever reach the marketplace?"
© LazharBouazzi
*Salammbô is a neighborhood in Carthage, TUN.
Andrew Rueter Jul 2017
This country's being privatized
By politicians using private eyes
Manipulating through public lies
And their hate filled cries
The question becomes a stark why
We ask the dark unwise
Driving us to laced dimes
Or writing ****** rhymes
Love is the answer I surmise
Nobody else buys
Emotions have no value in the marketplace
Unless you're of a certain race
That reminds them of themself
Then they're more likely to share their wealth

We need more than paper *****
To tear down these paper walls
The order becomes too tall
When we apply an objective concept (currency)
To a subjective principle (value)
Our ideas of value get tangled
Our empathy is mangled
Our discourse becomes angled
Discussions turn to wrangles
And cats are bred Bengal
As our domestic lives
Never left the jungle
But there's always a rumble
Regimes always tumble
Humanity continues to stumble
Earth's health starts to fumble
Molesting the planet like a creepy uncle
Until we see our follies unfold
Then will we be so bold
To say we can do it on our own?
When I was a young boy
I met a man with no legs.

“They popped right off! They ran and ran, off to the hills!”
Or so he said
                               Promising him his legs, I ran off

When I was a young boy
Looking for this poor man’s legs
I met a man with no arms,

“They were choking me, so I cut them both off”

Or so he said.
Grinning at me, he told me his tales
Tales of the moon and the rabbits,
                                                Of the turtle and the hare,
         Of the squirrel and her treasure,
                                                       ­                                                              
                               And of the man with no legs.

I took the man’s legs and never broke my promise,
In return I took the old man’s arms
To right my rightful wrong

Looking back now I can see a fatal error,
If only I could have learned it sooner;
You see, I was not a smart young boy
Or so they said
                               For I lost my ears along the way
I love telling stories. This is one of my first attempts at a more literal tale through poetry [after some heavy editing ;)]. "the squirrel and her treasure" is a reference to one of my other stories, if anyone is confused!
Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
The dawn unfolds beyond my fractured windowpane
and breezes tease while drapes, like serpents, slip aside
exposing worlds that race and run aground, insane,
displaying scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide.

Outside, the streets are stark (last night they seemed so cruel
when demons danced as lanterns 'lumed the lynching tree -
its shadow shuddered, lurking in my vestibule -
within the night, I sense these things I sometimes cannot see).

Perdu in darkened doorways (those which watch the ones that weep)
men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief.
The ladies of the evening leave (their time to sleep!)
the alleyways, retaining bitter tastes of untold grief.

Soon drifters (distraught dregs that stray from street to street)
abandon benches, squat on curbstones some call home,
appeal to strangers for a coin or simple bite to eat -
refused… gaze down… left empty-handed in the morning gloam.

Observe with me, beyond my fractured windowpane,
the boy with crooked smile - the one who's seen the  beast -
with tears, he stoops and clasps the cross while wiping off the stain -
the abbey door along the lane conceals a pious priest.

While at the mall, Mike sees some cigs, and stealth'ly steals a pack;
the Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’,
takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling eight times in the back.
Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud.

Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the alley now -
to pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line;
computer games (which quake with doom) can help somehow,
so Eric plays with Dylan on the road to Columbine.

The shanty towns have hunkered down as if in mortal sport
while broken bodies' shattered bones repose supine,
and mamas (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contort,
their eyes drip drops of wrath which wither on a twisted vine.

Now Mr Baxter, private bankster (cruising down the road,
pursuing profit pushers, waving magic mushroom wands),
adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed)
and jests with all the junkies, while he's dealing with the bonds.

Marauders man the marketplace (with billions guaranteed)  
while kids with swollen bellies beg neath hollow sunken eyes,
and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed.
Life's carousel invites us all, though few can ring the prize.

A washerwoman, timeworn, totters from the tram -
she shuffles to her hovel on a lonesome distant hill,
despondent, shuts the shutters, downs her final dram -
a magpie quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on the sill.

Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates,
behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake
(yes, God incites each side for good, the other side He hates),
with saintly satisfaction gained provoking pagan ache.

The watchers pry behind our fractured windowpanes
inspect us all, tear down the walls of privacy
controlling every point of view opinion entertains,
forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree.

Come, cast a furtive glance… there's something in the far…
from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches sudden death
by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star
erasing life in random ways in freedom’s final breath.

But closer lies an island, where the keepers keep the wards.
No sense, no charges nor defense - a verdict? Yes! … grotesque -
the guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards.
Impartial trials? A travesty instead, indeed quite Kafkaesque.

Now dusk draws near beyond my fractured windowpane
while mankind drowns like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light;
and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane
flow, deified, within the rotting corpse of human night.
Lawrence Hall Aug 2018
“But my chief argument in defence of **** An-shih is that…
           he retired from the Court decisively, ignored all recalls, and
           took to the mountains to write poetry of no political
           significance whatever.”


              – David Warren on the poet-philosopher **** An-Shih

Recusancy is not pious quietism;
In silence it is a brave voice withdrawn
From pompous Kratos’ halls of treachery
From screaming Demos’ marketplace of noise

And up into the silent hills to save
Something of civilization, to sing
Matins among the mountain mists, to write
A page in praise of Creation, to live -

Recusancy is not quietism at all;
It is a firm rebuke to tyranny
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel
Elizabeth Mar 14
the way the cold air looks on the tip of her nose, or the
way he smiles with his eyes pointed down at his toes
and that curious shade of blue that will forever go unnamed,
or the person you can’t help but stare at in the marketplace.
even that misty smell in the sky when it rains and the small bursts
of electricity that explode when she says your name.
we like these things and we don't know why; we can’t explain.
just like how I liked you, I couldn’t wrap it around my brain.
God ******
mercenaries
vipers
hypocrites

The Lamb of God
sold into the marketplace
led into the slaughter

The Love and Heart of God
now a harlot
for the desires and pleasures of perverse men
--honestly, I have more respect for a Lady of the Night, than religious ****** who traffic in holiness

The Spirit of God
miracles transformed
into entertainment and to rake in filthy lucre

The Banner of God
leads an army of hate

The Pastor of God
exiles a member of Christ’s body

The sacred Writings of God  
twisted into a message of
judgement, guilt, intolerance

I am dismayed
disturbed
disappointed
disgusted
… I have seen too much

The Heart of God bleeds, tears fall from His eyes

How long will this go on?

Is there vengeance and a special place of punishment reserved for those who commit such travesty?
For those who trample on the Blood of the Savior?

--Serge Banderet
So I go to this "meditation class" on meetup.  I get this lecture about how meditation will help me be one with the Universe, etc...
Oh and by the way, there's a $180 fee.  Or the many sob stories I have heard at church and how sacrificial giving is "spiritual".  Even found this sales pitch when buying a spell from a witch...  Greed seems to be an equal opportunity disease.  It sickens me.
I. on the street

a white rocking chair for two
sullied and weary
like the silver of old heads
to pacify the cries of the baby
a rusted bike
pale pink with plastic blue fish on the wheels
the serenity of girlhood and the abandonment of its ways
to secure the freedom i was forbidden as i grew older
a small wooden cabinet
to hold the piece of land we don’t stand on anymore
the one we left behind like citrus rinds
whose winds and rains do not touch our necks or arms

II. at the marketplace

red tomatoes
earth’s rubies
memories of the new world
canned sardines from abroad
and the water they once swam in,
once fed the tomatoes
the world ocean is a moody mother
but she cradles us in her atlantic arms
even if sometimes she is freezing and her teats are bitter
banana leaves, cloves, chocolate
purple corn, white corn, potatoes— all guests of honor to our feasts
one candle of jesús and maría
a dollar each
the fruits of our brothers’ and sisters’ toil
what keeps us living and bleeding

III. in each home we lived

those invisible things that cannot be touched
ghosts
one time, a demon with a large head
sanctuary from the outside that does not touch us because we are among the fortunate
the foundations of that all american house that did not belong to us
not the hammers or the nails or the beams
not the furnishings or carpets or walls
in our first apartment, two mattresses
four stuffed animals,
the beginning of nurture
where at six years old i wanted to die and be born again
Gods1son Nov 2018
Love is the bond
That holds the cells of my body together
With the inner Me and the Universe

Time is the song
That never ceases to play
In this marketplace called life

Death is the gong
That sounds, sending us back home
Where we truly belong!
Gods1son Dec 2018
Life is but a journey
A path to walk within a given time limit
Some call it a marketplace
Where character is the main currency
A place to offer that which you've been gifted with

It's not a race track where you have to be swift
No competition except trying to better your past
Every individual with his/her own lane
Maintaining that lane is the way to be sane

As I walk along this path
I have seen that love is that which beautifies the way
Respect is that which keeps it safe

That which you give, you have even more
What the eyes see, is not all that is
That which you emit, you also attract
Be you because nobody can be you better
Bob B Oct 2018
As the wind blows across the fiery desert,
The desperate people of Yemen sigh.
How many more will suffer today?
How many more children will cry?
A Saudi-led coalition
Strikes with a heartless disregard,
Leaving behind misery--
Death and destruction its calling card.

Choking the poor country, the Saudis
Organized a major blockade,
Cutting off vital medicine,
Food, and water, and stopping all trade.
Cluster bombs have fallen on cities.
Thousands of innocent people have died.
Hospitals and schools have been hit.
How can such horror be justified?

Millions of people risk starvation
If all the bombing does not end.
The Saudis hunger for more and more weapons,
And they have billions of dollars to spend.
A bomb made by Lockheed Martin
Hit a Yemeni school bus
Killing fifty-one people, and hurting
Many more, thanks to us.

A U.S. bomb hit funeral mourners;
One destroyed a marketplace.
That our support causes such
Atrocities is a disgrace.
The people suffer from cholera--
Something that is hard to avoid
When a country's sanitation
Facilities are being destroyed.

A massive humanitarian crisis
Plagues the country despite appeals
To end the conflict by caring nations,
While major players dig in their heels.
Sunni-Shiite conflicts continue
With innocent citizens caught in between.
Callous leaders turn their heads,
Afraid to speak up or intervene.

-by Bob B (10-17-18)
Tenderness is well spent
Like well earned money
Your deadly sins once again
Win you the royal treatment
Her eyes make me cry
For i am softer inside
Than her ******* ever were
Sad as a melancholy dream
We are collecting lies
And returning them to their mothers
What are we here to expect
When all we see is neglected
You hesitate to drift
Into a hypnagogic verisimilitude
Reality is the only food
Worth feeding to the moon
So keep using your heart to speak
Just check in with me please
Before you are ready to leave
Letting go we drift into snow covered hills
And why do we need
These lonely thrills in order to speak
Her kindness breaks down
Underneath she is angry as a cow
Like a bull in heat
You sweep through the streets
Like cattle in the marketplace
Faced with death or destiny
Instead you choose to rest indefinitely
Among the vicissitudes
Of hatred, apathy and infinite perplexity
rhiannon Sep 2018
My bright princess, you inspire me to write.
How I love the way you laughs, skips and sings,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Always dreaming about the gorgeous flings.

Let me compare you to a cute stardust?
You are more pretty, clever and caring.
Smart heat toasts the fond frolics of August,
And summertime has the fine time sharing.

How do I love you? Let me count the ways.
I love your beautiful eyes, heart and face.
Thinking of your happy heart fills my days.
My love for you is the warm marketplace.

Now I must away with a daring heart,
Remember my apt words whilst we're apart
stylesclash Feb 16
moral advancement as fake news; although we have not fallen
from the smartphone to the landline or the PC to the typewriter,
we constantly fall back and forth between war and unwar,
prosperity and impoverishment, because the soul is not technology
and history is not a march toward human perfectibility; love as

fake news, for marriage—consummated as much on Facebook
as anywhere, which is to say, only virtually—fails at a coin toss;
life as fake news, for you may terminate yourself with the assent
of society in a way no different than when one puts down his dog,

once he is too much of a burden to care for; for you may
terminate a child with a "get out of jail" card, because ***
is a bored game we play and games, being just pretend,
are not supposed to get this real; give up $1,000, collect
your new iPhone and do not pass go, for communication

is fake news: we speak only in electronic smoke signals
and, reducing our character to 140 characters and consuming
TV characters that are shown at a different angle every 3.5 seconds,
our literacy of ourselves is too ADHD to know who we are

and, thus, we have nothing to say,

no matter the multitudes in which we say it; fake news as fake news,
for even the first newspaper in America, dating 1690, was printed by
the notable liar, Benjamin Harris; literacy as fake news, for the difference
between now and then is that, although we can read (and view), we cannot
suspend our belief in a way that sufficiently separates us from children,
who are ready to believe almost anything; it is no surprise our president

is a WWE Hall of Famer; not unlike a child watching pro wrestling,
we are Stone Cold over these personalities--pick your poison--for
if one permits that Trump is an idiot, he ignores this question:
how stupid must his opponent be, if she cannot outsmart him?
like John Cena fanboys, who wear his brightly colored merchandise
in support of their hero, they, at once, will jump up in defense

college as fake news, for this daycare for the adult-aged
takes already fragile egos and coddles them more; we teach
self-esteem and not critical thinking, censorship and not debate,
lest anyone be offended by your ideas; democracy as fake news,
for once the obstruction of the marketplace of ideas is an ideal,
we no longer have a democracy; good intentions as fake news,

for Adam is human nature, and the original sin we contract is
real, as Freud confirms in his idea of Thanatos and Eros:
we are governed by a force that drives us to annihilate,
first others and then ourselves, and this is only tempered,
often unsuccessfully, by a wisdom that says we know better;

myself as fake news, for the grotesque contradictions
apparent in Trump’s language are my own, and he is only
my id enfleshed; i am an image bought and sold, believed in
and unbelieved, curated, for instance, as being “straight
edge”, when i merely lack sobriety in other ways; some of

which, perhaps, are more self-destructive than yours.

some of which are too crude to say and, ignorant of them,
you can go on believing me; as Kennedy once flubbed his
line, “Ich bin ein Berliner”, i must likewise confirm my solidarity
with something i should mean not to: for i, also, am fake news.
Akemi Nov 2018
Blanket city run along soaked in rain. Idiot Boy wastes his time visiting a passing crush at the other end of town. Slips between two houses and a metal sheet, communal refrigerator in the middle of the road filed with half-empty soy bottles.

Dead bell stop, mocking red blink of the operator. Father arrives, a mess of wiry muscles and hair.

“Hey. Is Coffin Cat here?”

“Who?” Father squints at Idiot Boy’s cap. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact.

“Um.”

Recessed in the blackness behind Father, a Figure says, “You looking for Coffin Cat?”

Idiot Boy nods.

The Recessed Figure turns. “I’ll go get her.”

Father returns to his parched body on the couch, content.

Indistinguishable forms move back and forth in the kitchen to the right. They stop their pacing and glance at Idiot Boy as he passes. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact and slips into the left-bound arterial vessel.

“So this is the heart chamber I’ve been living in,” Coffin Cat says as Idiot Boy enters her room. There is music gear. “It’s pretty comfy.”

“Oh, sick mic,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at the mic behind Coffin Cat’s head.

“I feel like a ghost,” Coffin Cat replies, falling on her bed.

Idiot Boy settles next to her. Animal distance. Intensely aware of his rain-soaked right shoe. “Same.”

Nothing comes out right, intersubjectivity a false God to mediate the impossible kernel of being, nobody can find nor express. Idiot Boy searches for connection. He glances around the heart chamber, at the music gear, but nothing grips. Four pears sit on a table by the window, their skins garish green in the harsh grey light.

Coffin Cat moves from the bed to the floor. She opens a virtual aquarium on her computer; fish eat pellets dropped from the sky to **** out coins to buy more fish to **** out coins to buy more fish. Capitalist investment and accumulation. Every few minutes a rocket-spewing robot teleports into the aquarium to attack the fish. Ruthless competition in the global marketplace.

“No! Why would you swim there, you ******* fish?” Coffin Cat yells as one if her fish is eaten by the nomadic war machine. “So dumb. ****. Why did it eat my fish?”

A knock at the door. The Recessed Figure from earlier enters the room. “Hey, mind if I join?” Their arms dangle like fine threads of hair.

“I like your music gear,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at nothing in particular.

“Idiot Boy also makes music,” Coffin Cat adds from the floor.

The Recessed Figure does not respond. They are enthralled by their phone, streak of dead pixels along a digital chessboard, minute reflection of their own gaunt face in the glass. After an extended period, they decide to move none of their pieces. A gaping coffee grinder rises out of the rubble at their feet. They begin filling it with tobacco from broken cigarettes.

“I’m surprised you’re still playing this,” Idiot Boy says to Coffin Cat. “I swear this is one of those games designed to ruin your life. Get addicted, stop going to work, become a hikik weaboo.”

“Already there, man,” Coffin Cat laughs. “Nah, this is my new job. I’m going to be a professional gamer.”

“Stream only PopCap games.”

Another knock at the door. Tired squander in an endless pacing of flesh. Strawman enters and nods at the Recessed Figure. “Hey bro.”

“Good to see you, man.” The Recessed Figure plugs the coffee grinder into the wall. “You got any ciggys?”

Idiot Boy points under the table and says “Ahh” with his mouth.

The Recessed Figure empties it into the coffee grinder. The device whirs into motion, creating a centrifugal blur, a mechanical and headless hypnotic repeat.

Idiot Boy and Coffin Cat look for horror movies to watch. The Recessed Figure empties the contents of the coffee grinder onto a metal tray. Strawman repacks it into a ****. White smoke fills the empty column, moves in slow motion like an oceanic rip a mile off coast, surface seething with quiet, impenetrable violence.

Idiot Boy refuses the first round. It’s never done him any good. Face turned to smoke and the wretched weight of a tongue that refuses to speak. Headless carry-on as time ticks through the clock face.

The door bursts open. Everybody turns as Manic Refusal or the Loud Person saunters in.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off!” the Loud Person says in exasperation. “First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

“What? What’s happened?” Strawman asks.

“Some rich ****** in Australia has bought me as his wife. I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!” the Loud Person laughs bitterly, before hitting the ****.

“Oomph, that’s rough,” Coffin Cat quips from the side.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold to off some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“But like, who is this guy?” Strawman asks, pointing.

“And he’s been reading all my profiles. He has access to all my information. I don’t even have control over my Facebook profile. Grand Larson’s logged in as me, posting for me,” the Loud Person continues. “I met him once in Australia, clubbing, and now he’s tracked and bought me.”

“That’s creepy as ****,” Idiot Boy says.

“So he’s not a complete stranger?” Strawman asks.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. First time back in five years and I’m being sold off!”

Idiot Boy decides one hit from the **** wouldn’t be so bad. He packs the cone with chop, lights and inhales. Smoke rushes through the glass channel, a swirl of white ether, more than he’d expected. He quickly passes the **** to Coffin Cat, before collapsing onto the bed, eyes closed. A suffocating sensation fills his body. He sinks into the chasm of himself, further and further into an impossible, infinite depth.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

Idiot Boy doesn’t know what’s going on. He feels sick and tries to get Coffin Cat’s attention, but cannot move his body.

“Come on. Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

A strange silence stretches like an artificial dusk, a liminal duration, the hollow click of a tape set back into place in reverse. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off! First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

The Recessed Figure makes a noncommittal noise.

“I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!”

Coffin Cat laughs quietly.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold off to some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“How about this fella? He doing okay?” Strawman asks, pointing. Everyone turns to Idiot Boy and laughs affectionately.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

“Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

Idiot Boy slowly opens his eyes and stares out the window. The same grey light as before. He moves his arm further towards Coffin Cat, but is still too weak to get her attention. The same strange silence stretches. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. . . .”

As the conversation repeats over and again, Idiot Boy begins to think he has become psychotic, or perhaps entered into a psychotic space. He thinks of computer algorithms, input-output, loops without variables, endless regurgitations of the same result. Human machines trapped in their own stupid loop. Drug-****** neuronal networks incapable of making new connections, forever traversing old ones. Short-term memory loss, every repeat a new conversation of what has already been. The same grey light painted upon four pears by the window.

He’s not sure if Coffin Cat’s laugh is getting weaker with each repeat.

Signal-response. The exterior world oversaturated with variables: roadways, rivers, forests, wildlife — an ever changing scene to respond to — the illusion of depth. Automatic response mechanisms reorient to new stimuli. The soul rises like surfactant, objectified fractal diffusion. A becoming without end.

But within the border of this interior world, the light stays grey. No input, no change; the same dead repeat, over and over, until sundown triggers a hunger response. Lined all along the street, a black box ceremony of repeating machines, trapped in their idiot cults, walls of clay and blood.

Idiot Boy finally gets Coffin Cat’s attention. She helps him through the house’s arteries to reach rain and wet stone, overcast skies. As he shakes in shock, Coffin Cat mumbles, “It’s cold.”

Idiot Boy sits silent on the ride home. Travels through himself. Tunnel through the body or Mariana Trench. Loses his footing before a traumatic void. Leaves the car and pukes.
Al Aug 12
She speaks in clouds,

her curves drink lost
words.

Her dress entrances.

This marketplace so full
of colour,

many fragrances merge.

I watch her dance with
gypsy jazz tones.

Olive skin and dark hair.

She beckons me forth, to
a flaming beauty.

With her clouds I
merge.

— The End —