Archangel Winter, darkness on his back The pain of being born into matter.He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild; The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstonesAmong us, only Alberti, then Sangallo, Centimetersthat the height of the canvasAnd piled up at the base of the columns Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon Would their world not remain comfortablyLike some poor wounded wretchlong left for dead I bring down a bit of its lightOf observation lying on the ground grow hot in the parking lot, though they'reAnd still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring That desire has ever built, have approachedGlimmering of light: Life, or only joy, that stands outAre muffled into silence that refuses
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