dew-water man encountering mornings still half asleep underneath the sweat of chilly nights. cows and goats awaiting the kiss of kind hands before sunburst, his august voice enticing fallow ground to feed the table spread with hungry eyes waiting for a cheerful whistle to come home bearing fruited blessings.
her wings carried the nine no feathers plucked from the plumage of her vigilance. seven years more than ten decades leave never-fading diurnal melodies. her grave hath no grave songs the living sing but happy ones where the sweat of her brows has left a desolate habitation in full bloom
Scars tell tales beyond their gasps or moans or wounds.—cab
the oyster hugs its pearls, scorched by harsh grains of sand; the sand, swept by windwhirls, annihilate the land. sweet ebon, wear your rings —no tree as tall and proud!— where time has grafted strings to pull you to your cloud.