The child flung against the cliffs, finally seeking refuge between cracks in the mountain. The scene shifts to fallen room wreaking of cigarettes and a sudden winter cold. He sits solemn on a chair with his heart in his mouth thoughts ablaze and a soul too weak.
The wind gushes in and on it more sorrows ride, where the man ushers them in and calls for bread and wine. There lurks a heavy fall yet he burns an orange tree. He seeks what cannot be his and weeps to be free.
Not bounded by ropes or by cries of passion, the man wonders of distant hopes and asks if he will smile to the stars or glee to bees? The showers of spring and a brave new winter to hunt him down slay and slew.
A fondness to his skin and muddled solemn heart, he years for compassion yet…
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