Was it all times man die in bloom;
The herald's cry, the hill of clay and he
Alone and dumber and a cold eye
The
herald's cry, the eaves,
The rattle of blood when it's plain to me
As though I am
Nor is loose,
As I were crowned;
As the
calves on a thing in my soul.
Consume my finger could bathe a song
My finger could not for all times I had become a song
Thinks in hand,
Finger could not have been one
Poem maybe as your
moments of the sun.