I came upon a great plain of yellow soil and red sky. Where would I find peace, if not away from both noise and music? And yet it seems even I, a shadow of man, cannot quiet the thought that finds it’s way in solitude. Merely a reflection, yet dreaming of desire.
To despise poetry, what if not a batte cry! All these moans, but a condemnation! To renunce life, that is truly sinful!
Oh, but I disgress. The grass is now frozen, I cannot hope but to see the sky break and the water fall, to hear the music I’ve saved, the rememberance of my very soul. And so I hear Beethoven, as I write in a foreign language, imagining this frozen sea upon wich falls Kafka’s axe, to chop the very ice from the water that is the flow of life. Can I finish this poem? Can one live withouth this axe?
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