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Literature Text
Because whoever you are in that moment
Ends. Chained to the walls,
Jaws and dull necks hanging out
Over the arm of a yellowed couch in the back
Of a green van driving through Seattle.
They were in it. They wore the bad spaces
As soldiers their rifles ready for the fall.
Memories swinging down, bright, leaping,
And mostly quiet.
Because you know you need the church
Without doors, without pews, without
Belonging to barely breathing gods mouthing
Infinity (though not to say you shouldn’t claim
some wrong turns).
Most stowaways are starless buckets,
Most still want nothing to do with mankind,
Most are told to stop looking,
Most dirt piles know me.
Whoever they were.
Ends. Chained to the walls,
Jaws and dull necks hanging out
Over the arm of a yellowed couch in the back
Of a green van driving through Seattle.
They were in it. They wore the bad spaces
As soldiers their rifles ready for the fall.
Memories swinging down, bright, leaping,
And mostly quiet.
Because you know you need the church
Without doors, without pews, without
Belonging to barely breathing gods mouthing
Infinity (though not to say you shouldn’t claim
some wrong turns).
Most stowaways are starless buckets,
Most still want nothing to do with mankind,
Most are told to stop looking,
Most dirt piles know me.
Whoever they were.
Literature
Age
My hands have never been as heavy as they are now. Looking at my fingers, withered by time and hardships, I recall their former lightness as I bent timber into pieces of art—so agile and precise. As I sit here in front of the workbench I made decades ago, the same workbench in front of which I used to spend night after night pouring every ounce of my being, of my soul even, I am reminded of how much has changed. As I sit here and gently run my calloused, numb hand across the same old wood, which although has no ears to hear me, I still feel the need to apologise to—for my inability. It hurt. It hurt to look at my countless tools, knowing I’ll NEVER use them again, pains me more than my diminishing health ever could. Ever since I become like this, all I do is come here in my workshop and just sit. It was difficult to come here today. I slipped and fell down the steps to the basement. I've fallen down before, but today was more painful than ever. Getting up was hard, and my knees still
Literature
Emberiza Aureola
Oh golden bird, does she not sing
That ribbon winds too tight about
Her neck, though such a pretty thing
It hides the pain she can't let out
A scarlet noose about her throat
Chokes all the hope right out of her
The sun has set. The sky's grown dark
And love has flown away from her
They say love is a crimson string
That ties one soul to another
That severed cord tells everything
Valediction of her lover
Her eyes scream what her throat cannot
Dreams lie shattered inside her heart
Some wounds can never be forgot
Nor hide the fact love can depart
Where is the heart that has no home
Forsaken, dark and unappeased
Migration came and love has flo
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