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Vocalise haunted still by faces smeared with ash.

Depressed all winter long he thwarts his captive breath.

If only we could plunder rumors kept well-guarded.

But are you there and are we troubling you?

The stars suffused with aspects no one can discern.

A maiden warming up to a widow who shields her face.

Who’s to say our ch’i might not suddenly bloom.

Or rival a sage’s flowering arms await the call.

The ceiling clay shouldered-in by solemn monks.

An oracle to be chosen where the bottle stood uncorked.

Lips without song useless as the hours pass.

Who asks for bread instead of stones flying overhead?

A sickness in the blood crowned with fire.

Renounce the troth or spare us six-winged seraphim.

Too much perhaps desired glazed with pearly glow.

As he forsook the root to try the bones again.

In mansions we cannot enter wider than this world.