Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
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heirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting. I do not think the sea will appear at all. The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within. I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies, Hanging their blue-green bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
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