Way out, across the ramparts,
Are these corners of what could have been a tender seed of grass?
Or what's more across the shore?
Sixteen dozen doves fly,
Towards a million miles of freedom,
Save the shore line where we were born, and we will lie.
Let's walk in remission,
With feet stuck in the mud.
"For crying out loud!"
There is broken glass that I broke myself.
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