The bending branches on the fir mean the devil can’t keep his hands off. There will be a dove at the eye, let language bless you blind. Heaven’s tomb is draped in threes by a passive hand. The language games comatose lay hands for me. They lip the wind, the world I’ll intend. I’d lie just above the vowels, a heavenly body, I may grow fond of this soil. A breathing pulse for this cold body. The same name can mean two different things. A single breath spinning and spinning. The same words can mean two different things.
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