|Song from the Esperanto
A hundred bright eyes up in a cypress tree
You are drawing nigh and nigher
Uh Oh my wings are on fire
But just the tips though.
Big angels darken my door
And drop large orbs of music and song
They darken my threshold
And stroke my hands with their antique tongues
They pull my hair
And get my tears to do things.
The silver phone rings. I will answer. Thank you! A gift.
The mystic shape of an antique tongue
Beats my eyes with the grapes of doom.
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