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Literature Text
I sang a song of summer
On the night we said goodbye;
Whistled loud to all the clouds,
I bottled up the sky-
And as we strayed into July
I dreamt of crystal June;
I stretched my dreams onto the seams
And sang a little tune.
When we crept through autumn, though,
I started having doubts:
I tried to rhyme but felt that time
Was stumbling about
Drunk on every winter hymn
That melted frosty air.
But warmth of spring began to sing
Of secrets everywhere-
So as we sang of season’s past
And said our soft goodbyes,
I unlatched the melted cap
And let go of our sky.
On the night we said goodbye;
Whistled loud to all the clouds,
I bottled up the sky-
And as we strayed into July
I dreamt of crystal June;
I stretched my dreams onto the seams
And sang a little tune.
When we crept through autumn, though,
I started having doubts:
I tried to rhyme but felt that time
Was stumbling about
Drunk on every winter hymn
That melted frosty air.
But warmth of spring began to sing
Of secrets everywhere-
So as we sang of season’s past
And said our soft goodbyes,
I unlatched the melted cap
And let go of our sky.
Literature
For Nice.
A strong Oak stands alone amid the hedgerow. Watching over this season's final yield of wheat. The last stage of the crop rotation. No more than a hardy grass, yet sufficient sustenance no less, for those that tend to the field. I note a ring of scarlet poppies circling the wheat. A blood-stain border, soaking the outer edges of the field. Speckled also, in amongst the crop, in that same sporadic pattern seen in blood splatter. A metaphor for the sacrifices made in ensuring that the village stays fed perhaps? Or perhaps, an aesthetic. Planted by the farm hand with little to no particular reasoning, other than just, well, for nice. The dog grows impatient, pulling at his lead as though to say that sometimes things just are, that I ought not to ponder on them for too long, lest I rob them of their inherent beauty. I scratch him behind the ears in agreeance. "good boy, lets get you home".
Literature
Angles of Light
That window which you look through Seems heavy, but the eyes You use to look with, set alight Each thing a thousand ways: Is dawn a bright mosaic? A bird in a gold tree? Disaster or a masterful Display of artistry?
Literature
reflective
One minute you will stand watching prior moments drift past your fingertips on kite strings. You will think, I could not have known such things would fly away. You will think, I was happier tied to such fragments of time. You will think, My heart sang for lack of knowledge. My heart leapt for ignorance. Witness now--the mouth of a tunnel, think then on the other end. Close your eyes and fall backward, into the shoes of former selves, envying their blindness to this present. Linger. Then lean back into reality-- your future shouldn't need to wander forward alone.
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I don't know if we'll ever sing again.
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