I catch the lark within the day
It curves my neck toward the sky
I slip my fingers 'round its neck,
a looming figure, these of angered while
I shall be reciting these without respite, a turning of will
An age or two has burnt the sky,
little figures meant to set aflame
This bird, she watches patiently, but catchers, all, claim the same
It curves my neck toward the sky
I slip my fingers 'round its neck,
a looming figure, these of angered while
I shall be reciting these without respite, a turning of will
An age or two has burnt the sky,
little figures meant to set aflame
This bird, she watches patiently, but catchers, all, claim the same
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