Each planet as a cell, we then can be of what they are, in combination of parts, of this incomplete repertoire, or reciprocal, nordic, twist, in the meadows melodies. The sighs, and breath’s we take, when we are quickly, taken up, to the sound of the last bubble, no longer our homes. They left yesterday, we leave now, as we look down, as the mist becomes larger, than the dust, of the shades, of the the opaque lands. I dear to find you, where you are with me, when I become you to those who call. Away is less than a path, and the showers reverse, in your need, for them, and for those that build what is they pretend, to what is loose for those who take, what you could see, for them to have, to share for long, as you who go, without, Who smile within. Your place, in the spaces, and they who know, are with you,  left in hidden treasures left to share. The mark of every voice, eternal designs of individual perfections displeased with one another, for those who cherish, forgetting their own. I the light, and you the place, and they the atmosphere. When a clapping moves along, the waves, the dense of colours embrace the sights, of different angles, we keep one, and the others we remember, as they in time take on a new form. There came a sound, in the distance, that which lives inside of us. In dreams we catch, the time we lost, those moving about, the night express line, I float away, thus calling as I fade, and awake to the new, unknown. I fill one page, and the scratch of the pens, seek I my answers through the merk of the tables, the places I leave, left in sadness, from the coin I remember, as the spider will carry, climbs the feelings with hunger. Let there, be free, of the saking, for your troubles, that all may be washed, inconceivable bowles of the spare, from a trouble decipher, to then remember to learn a new. They who yield to the mortar, their hair uncomb, their soup, be warm, in the dampness of the wind. The leaves, how many hues, we lived in each stem, of their memorable sizes. They on the the other side of the Sun , who see us. They will call us today, yet we will hear them tomorrow. As I look through the marble, them I photograph, yet do they know not. Once we were here, today as forever, and together, as we spread, our task we spare. Those who knock the souls will open. Those who open their souls will be heard at an exchange of memories, those things obscure. The sides of the cold trees, and the gift of their barks, each one, an individual, a place for the the ants, a nation for them, the many. Perhaps if they are from where they come, and we go from where we are, we are taking on new forms. Ones mind merges with another, the shapes in thoughts, designs we store. The compass, and man, which direction poles create, then I looked, and free was the horizon, which my eyes can only grasp.


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