We strive to not be versions or the dead. Always expecting lace but coming up cotton. The lack is hungry.
We strive to not be versions or the dead. Always expecting lace but coming up cotton. The lack is hungry.
“Although the clouded storm dismays
Many a heart upon these waters,
The thought of that far golden blaze
Giveth me heart upon the waters,
Thinking thereof my bark is led
To port wherein no storm I dread;
No tempest maketh me afraid.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: The Spear”