enter no(silence is the blood whose flesh
is singing)silence:but unsinging. In
spectral such hugest how hush,one

dead leaf stirring makes a crash

--far away(as far as alive)lies
april;and i breathe-move-and-seem some
perpetually roaming whylessness--

autumn has gone:will winter never come?

o come,terrible anonymity;enfold
phantom me with the murdering minus of cold
--open this ghost with millionary knives of wind
scatter his nothing all over what angry skies and

         (very whiteness:absolute peace,
never imaginable mystery)

67 of 73
  The Punished Son
Jean-Baptiste Greuze

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