The funerals of Marley Lennon and King made the skies
fall before the horizon, the veins made of crystal
sing the symphonies of time.
And that whistle blows to me across long dead years.
The hearts made of barley-rice feed those chickens in the sky.
The houses on fire hide the parchments touched.Grief set on fire.
Smoke fills the skies and the skies are no more.
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