There years were, and as reference, kindly for news. A light in a window one day, clouds in a day with pastures. Shiny instruments paused like roses. We were loved by the time we took. Years of ice and sooner fell in waves before us. You remember, we were kids. We were tried and true, with roses, plummy bright roses. Lights rose from ashes, baskets in a haze. You were tired, I was worse. Plumes of water rose from battered rocks in the edge of something storm. Naturally we remained. Chords on a piano remember tasks of given. Something paused like roses as the green came loose and grand. Someone plays the drums, outright,. As far as dance conditions, and we say our words, the moment rests. Not the beat, of course, but the pasture land between. Holding hands is a careful sentence. Every sentence bounds to further stated. We were kids, and such is as we stay. Piper at dawn shocks my brain. We are kids.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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