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Literature Text
Rose held the compass in her hand,
She did not know this foreign land,
She’d walked so far, she could not stand,
Where was that man? Where was that man?
And in the distance – silhouettes,
She panicked, feeling quick regret
But she was weary, soiled and wet,
The figures met, the figures met.
Her body trembled as the sky
Changed drastically before her eyes,
No warning ‘fore the blackest night,
“Can I still fight?” “Can I still fight?”
A pap’ry cloth was placed in hand
With subtle grains of soil and sand,
“What is this?” Rose did so demand,
“It is the plan”, “It is the plan”
“Please carry these towards the seas”
“And when you hear the wind’s howl cease”
“Just place it in the cockle’s key”
“Then leave it be”, “Then leave it be”
She stumbled, staggered to the beach
And soon she came to seashell’s breech,
The cloth fragmented once in reach,
The cockle screeched, the cockle screeched.
The day was bright with greens and golds
A warmth replaced the biting cold,
Home now, no longer did she hold,
The compass old, the compass old.
She did not know this foreign land,
She’d walked so far, she could not stand,
Where was that man? Where was that man?
And in the distance – silhouettes,
She panicked, feeling quick regret
But she was weary, soiled and wet,
The figures met, the figures met.
Her body trembled as the sky
Changed drastically before her eyes,
No warning ‘fore the blackest night,
“Can I still fight?” “Can I still fight?”
A pap’ry cloth was placed in hand
With subtle grains of soil and sand,
“What is this?” Rose did so demand,
“It is the plan”, “It is the plan”
“Please carry these towards the seas”
“And when you hear the wind’s howl cease”
“Just place it in the cockle’s key”
“Then leave it be”, “Then leave it be”
She stumbled, staggered to the beach
And soon she came to seashell’s breech,
The cloth fragmented once in reach,
The cockle screeched, the cockle screeched.
The day was bright with greens and golds
A warmth replaced the biting cold,
Home now, no longer did she hold,
The compass old, the compass old.
Literature
the witch's house.
I want to be the home of whispers,
the house of dripping water and blooming
plants, the shelter of childish drawings
and books with broken spines; I want to
hear the gossiping mothers tell their gossiping
daughters how my home is full of fresh air and
the feeling of watching a sunrise in a new country.
The windows would all be open, gauzy and
bright curtains billowing in the breeze
the high rise would always have, and no door
would have a lock and some doorways would
have no door; music would drift to the
pavement below and everyone would hear
the crooning voices of men with diamonds for
teeth and the plucked strings of instruments that
Literature
Flagstones (Section 170 (7))
I went back to the secret
waterfall where once
we professed our love
and poured libations to the gods,
only the river had dried
to a trickle
and was choked
with leaves.
I stood there
alone
on the wide dry stones,
listening to the humbled
murmur of lost waters,
and realized
that when the river was gone
it became a road.
Literature
A Glimpse at the Truth
It's the rise of the perfectly manicured eyebrow. It's fascinating. With every sentence I say it creeps up just a little bit further. I decide to try and get to the end of it: “Well, and you know, these things happen and then I had another job and, you know, book burning went a little bit further down the list and I didn't really get around to it and when I finally came to her apartment, there was nothing there. I think I turned in the wrong person. Can you give her back?”
The second eyebrow sets herself in motion. “And you don't think that with your careless treatment of this very sensitive matter you just made the evidenc
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Love this! So different!