The treetops come alive with birds against the faint glow of a dying dusk. It is when we make our gestures complete with a pair of vacant eyes of knowledge not taking in account an ignorant past, a stuttering faith ,a faltering love ,a science of comfort.

Our senses cry like ignorant crickets in raining dark with many new frogs raising throats to a night in orchestra. Our faces are duly contorted with love like exaggerated gestures of dancers.

Our eyes turn up in repeated brows but in the end they sound as of air like a breeze rustling in yellow leaves dealing with a dead past of the trees.


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