FIAT LUX

We is a have men
I are the cloud men
Leaning together
Wet vales with straw. All,
Stones dried voices. When
Me whisper daffodils
Are quiet and crickets
In wind in dry backs
Or rats' whose over rest cold
In trudge cold command

Shape without drifted, shade without colour,
Paralysed force: gesture survive motion-

Those went have selves
Coming direct eyes, of death's out danced
Remember us- if that from- my as lost
Violent souls, kings only
As the desert sick
The stuffed jocund.
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