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Post by Thoithoi O'Cottage on Oct 25, 2014 15:00:16 GMT 5.5
Wafting about lazily in the stone breeze Fingering through the silky, curly hair Of plump, naked angels carved out of An igneous landmass of a volcanic vomit, Beeing through the rock garden trees and flowers Drenched in dew drops of stone cold and quivering, Threading my way through the restless roads And narrow alleys among the quiet stone houses Of people beautiful like the garden angels Resting away their endless lives in the slow yards Like a noiseless engine running on the sweetest wine.
A stone city sans a sound, a lot of movement As on a bee-hive on a busy beautiful spring day Or blood in the veins of lovers in the acts of love, But not a sound to make a meaning--like moving lips Of a mute singer, or a song and dance number With the volume turned off, or a battle field noiseless After a shattering shell has striken you deaf.
The stonesmith, the city God, is always by the fireside In the stone temple boiling stone, pouring liquid stone Into casts and hitting red-hot stone blocks on the stone anvil. He pricks a momentary hole into my ear and says In dull smacks of two grey stone lips in no haste, "There is a stone membrane making everything so silent."
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