Key strokes, bored bells, toll,
harsh hallucinated reflections,
the crow’s clairvoyant voice
drowned as it croaks and croaks.

Infant shoots break through
forgotten interstices, roots
of a season that dances and dances,
an orgy of merry round merry round.

May lush riot strikes,
no sound is heard nor sight seen
along the banality of glaring screens,
lust drowned by drunken electrons.

On its bleak concrete perch,
solitary and proud, the crow
croaks and croaks down the crowd,
its beak in two the horizon splits.

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