The Plow Man - Poem by James McLain
Nighttime come and I am going out against.
Prohibition of the sounds death is before the knell
of the currants running past today.
Slow burning is the fire
the wind I hear the roaring crowd.
That the method of becoming comes before.
Heavily to her I return obtaining.
Upon the glassy plain and today her plowman,
and the leafy kiss is darkness to my world.
Now shining faintly I view new vision,
and all air which in silence the reigns I've grasp.
That lonely monotone if you exclude that where,
and drowsy inklings alleviates the distant cold.
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