this is the light of the mind, cold and planetary

i simply cannot see where there is to get to.

the moon is no door. it is a face in its own right

the moon is my mother. she is not sweet like Mary.

how I would like to believe in tenderness

i have fallen a long way. clouds are flowering

the moon sees nothing of this. she is bald and wild.

and the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

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