He dressed hurriedly, from minor failures,
Yanking his shirt on with alacrity and dexterity.
He tossed the head and the finding of eternity,
Out came the grave accusation of some validity.
I have some knowledge of his whereabouts,
Plates are smashed for him like the offering,
A structure gradually builds up like engines,
But the corridor ends like the walls of tombs.
These are high tombs and their walls fall,
He dressed towards the highest knowledge
And struck functions of the heaviness that was sour.
Go to the lights of a day that engineered a story,
Days and nights fed the whole year with solidity.
Flickering lights made the stations of the soul,
The engines of critical nature were like plates.
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