Stone boy, stone girl everlasting kiss.
Everfalling wax fingers has Icarus.

Let artists speak: they mean no harm.
But promised comes the dawn
to shine on rough stone as the hewn.

O Night, your crickets prophesy.
Heard but not seen in black nothing
Sound grows, outlines and glows
Aurora’s pink and jagged edge.

Then in the hedge sweet meet the legs to sing,
“What’s art is dead, all choice is dust
when minds are light, the light is just
and you’re as beautiful as all is beautiful
when shone upon enough.”

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