I trace that early fish that has eroded from the stone, but what was meant was mystical as marrow for the bone ! Through all my life's vicissitudes, the prayer book and the mat, I came to know, not what I am and God is not like that !
Not threadbare in these dusty scrolls - a place for banished mice, I never knew the guilt that heard the cock was crowing thrice ! Arboreal the memory in weather under lime, though I may love the myth with you until the end of time.
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