• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 03
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Better smoke be white
and sky be blue. Colours, like
people, need fixtures true.

Blue of the ocean,
white of the waves: a primal
emotion this heart craves.

Blue is the tune the
guitar-man plays to the green of
my nights and blue of my days.

Days strewn like leaves for
a breeze await. The crow calls
from the frontier gate.

Autumnal leaves strewn,
the earth is gold and rust. Nice
camouflage for the forever dust.