Good Morning My Window

How rain’s rank and file ended
and gave birth to new clouds of
terrestial sended.  Their powdered
fog лежит на траве, giving birth
to the shaking camera.  Eyes that
stood poised in Grecian stone,
all our secrets of woe to unfound,
our keepsakes to mounds.  Smile
of puffed lips, sipping a black kylix
that a crow came to drink and frisst.
Both natures, man and Vögel, came
to interview and share that vin of
morming’s stay, as forest rains were
woven from dewy mountain chains.

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