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Golem’s march A town and silver fog around a lane on silent paved ground and shade slowly spreads along the frames the suave smell of clay is too strong we faint on the belfry old clock races saints turn like vane death laughs its bell cries smoke in disemboweled lane stones in bloodless tired town and will his heavy step resound again it ends now it’s time for rain to come on the belfry old clock races saints turn like vane death laughs its bell cries rain sometimes falls sometimes cleanses sometimes drowns sometimes rain endless flows endless streams endless shrouds endless yawns… |