My knotted hands so ill-equipped with dexterity,
so foul and heinous they grasp of gray
hearted stones and of soft May winds,
jubilee’s moans. My joints ached for the coming
deluge. How incompatibly to sun transparently
shown, my inept tools of bones could not see a
new color, could not write a new song. Ancient
winds had filled the baggy lungs of eldest
sages with cautious airs and tepid sounds.
The smoke from their wheezing gave form
to darkness with grayness so. Sage’s kin removed,
due to ivory of their skin, to say the wild
trespasses our Earth, forever set us falsely
outside the brownness of true Earth. The gray
hues of shadows were exception to a complete sable
that only crownless cows dared meet. And all
the colors and sounds were old bruises that our
hearts had somehow into gray existence bruised.
Sages old eyes sowed ours shut, like puppets or
children, as our hands set senses loose, a bilging gray.


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