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But rather a couple of modest lambshad just in good time been set free.' He's waiting, come along! Your habitation forms out of your habits. Now bring your folks with you, but take a nip First, have a snack, Begin a song, before all that, it stands to reason, get some sleep: Your spirit burdens of your body-wreck like a fang-sharp dog's flesh suffers from the rabies. So keep on mating with the expectation Of beauty, call a halt just on and off Till you be mentioned As a protagonist of Love. And what if God, indeed, was one of us - how could you look at Him through the beer-glass? Array a Christmas tree and fix The top above. Prepare a salad of the olives Waiting not for the time cut lemons shrink - you nip the boredom in the bud! So, take with kid-gloves and taste a sparkling man's old drink Of sperm and blood. No matter if she leaves, If there is no spittle mix, And passion is as innocent as a dove. Despite I have been told, 'Go now and meet Him there, look, He is born! Just split that corn, grow up your care...' - One of my childish fears Reveals that loss, And I get on my knees... But some do force to fix me on all fours. And so you crawl Knowing not of the way torn bodies fly Just not to fall But reach the death - Between the barren earth And barren sky. Alone At Night You have sunk in your memories. Panes are all blackened, gently speared with long brittle clutches of nodding trees: They feel your furrows and throw their seed. Lights are all smashing reaching your mind (dark apples shrink dying on your table); You sit close to yourself, a bit behind, Playing with hushed wrinkled pain affable. It snows. The snow falls down on your shoulders, it marks you and reaches the sky's top back, but here it looks no eye of the beholder To sweep it and so save your hair black. The furrows are smoothed out, the seed is growing, You doubt less which makes your demons light. For there must be one in the dark to keep sowing, to lead one's hand blind being keen in sight. The tree is your core and boughs are your wrinkles while dead is your root and its smoke's too slow. Gone is the call, with your silence it mingles To let you get forward - beyond - and grow... My Tenderness My tenderness eludes your embrace for there's more quiet and peaceful place Which is much closer to spite and hate With that half-closed (or half-opened) gate. And while together are love and death, there's love itself bids to care less About you - as the death stands too close... So I avoid those accepting both. The Flow Just like the tide which strikes and dreams of might, your sense o'ertakes this pain and streams below,
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