While ‘except ye after moses, ye cannot be’, I pedaled to the top of Queensborough park to see from a height the arm of the Lord while duel trucks nominated blows. In history,the herds the Lazyges brought forward would each summer be watered by the sea, and fed in passage off the pundit square the sound of sacred music they implored. Could i see and here them come.
Little beak, little beak, drink the water. Little mouth, little mouth, drink the water.
the kids persisting in and after many until when having drunk they crossed the Danube and from that moment high upon the bridge they travel by the pocket on my hip. and when therefore it was evening on that day, I peddled down along the bank and sat to choose the fourth boat short it’s oars still with all the tackle a decked vessel carries.you, despite your settling here.
Little beak, little beak, pour the water. Little mouth, little mouth, pour the water.
it was dream again that sudden plaything some on every side of us, we as images adrift, mosques in danger. and so I put them almost anywhere. and from my bmx, draw down dawn’s curtain to dwell inside that which will outlive us all: the light that with true light adorns.