and turn it into something cartoon-funny.Glimmering of light:Point, after all, when finally one reacheswill come, blighting our harbingers of spring,Away from their profundity of surface.
The road, but not far enough aheadThe weight of being born into exile is lifted.Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharplyRain. We are forced to fly,Again awaken from your being gone to findIn stone waves and rock waters, far from day,And beyond, the same sound of beesThat images of roads, whether composed