We spit and we cursed yet our hearts alike had burst. Medusa torn laid defenseless upon the ground. We wonder what could have been; whilst over harp pale misery moaned. Mere sight of her face would turn onlookers to stone. Half imagined tale lead us to believe that perhaps suitor of blind rage could thus torment assuage. In accordance to Celtic myth ‘Neto’ swashbuckling god of war, seemed to be adept for whispered tales of lore. Thus the streams of sorrow ceased to swell and pour.
dawn gifts a luscious bud
proffer of love.
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