A String Quartet
The goad the sting the things that bringThe death of Light, the other Night
Someone singing through a window
Down by the River a far off meadow
An abstract willow weeping low
Sweeping rows of tears no one knows
Who hears those words so tenderly
Spoken were only a verse
Pieces of string unraveling
The goad the sting the things that bring •°》•
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2017-10-13 at 15:55
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