Friday, March 5, 2010
Tonight the tall grasses sway atop the scenery,
To this speak of width of your lenses, the bitter eye.
I gather before me my sight that was extinguished
All because of my awkward light, and dusk was begotten.
The morning carried on with fewer casualties,
In the morn is a dawn of wholesome taste, since it weeps
With dew, and flowers with all the language have tears.
The night has arisen foraging hate and dark resentment,
Fearing the day as it equals its stay, forming an entrance.