May our togethers pass into aparts Without experiment, the natural rhythm Chronicles advance our sociability Rhyming to the sound of the next birds Whose flights provide smaller fontwords; Graveyards of years are worn inside We dance our vestibule tears Folding our hands underneath wings Puppeteers play organic strings; Dissect the pattern of the road Where latitude plans stand-in for codes: Language of force and colorful shifts Asks not a nest for gathering rifts; Bared on the beak with toothiness red Arid the day that looks like our bed Leaping and looking for going along Fantasy playing the mythical song; Were but anthropocentric wise Ducking crowds under the skies Lost glories cannot sing to call Wishing solo, loving all.