Lilting soundless songs from life trapped lips. Springs of sturgeon darkness. That vileness of spool wrung present, taut as an unrelievable bow. The death of an arrow, as unfree as its owner, unsure as its aim, as broken as its bodkin tip, its sorry hopes.
"Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way."
Yeats, W.B.
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