AtLast_[07]

>> Flesh to the Raven << Is all wisdom pain? From hurt and nothing else obtained? Are blameless failings ever fast? Deficient sheds or dice to cast? From sinners' sins to penitence, Why not mere trips of innocence, Faulted outset Startled dart, Why not try again In runner's art? Past persuasions falter, As late grasp cleaves the grip of sin. If passions ever fire, Forever ever mires. Toil, flailing, fails us seizing. Chaos reasoned leaves us bleeding. As throes of foes of time offend When whenever ceases Ceasing never ends.

Time trips ever from the East, Barren compass south to north In ruthless glut to quiet peace,

Uprooting stars which shepherd course. Westerly whistling ceaselessly groans Heedlessly, needlessly vested in tone. Unseemly rivals willfully tilt To the pall of piping in thistle and kilt.

Lost Virelai Gigue And rigaudon