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And scattered on it are seeds of merriment, Prepared to grow, Under the azure of its heavenly firmament, Ripening slow, And permanent.
Ready to move from reverie to reality, From thought to flesh, Pain to blessedness, And silence into an assuring cry!
YouThe curator of this untouched garden, The Mother, the bearer, the meadowAll fresh, all new, A baby, a merriment, a heaven will grow, From the breath and flesh of you!