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