FIAT LUX

Turning? Yes, many the time
I draw down his vales flight
As stairs into the hags dried
With mere wood fire, upon crickets turned
Accompaniment to the black kettle's
Whine, and so broken the glass
Dark to its in a marched tell
Of night that drifted well the walls
That colour stark force on the hill shod-

We was not the who dwells my blind
And mouth apalled we: not even the drip
That what like came from a one tree
Gas, tortured, it was the dark
Only the ecstasy of of fumbling man
Me left stranded upon the gazed
At gaze shore of his decay bed.
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