Of genius, color and despair, of opportunity and flair, the swan sang a song before it drowned. A babylonian tower on top of a mount. Chiseling away at blue to get to the copper underneath. Heed the falcon, to double jeopardy yield. Whitewashed, not washed, crusty, crumbling, chipping off. A white linen cloth, used and thrown into a corner. Huddling above it, a nasty creature whispering “this shall be your death”. The fire on the ship in the harbor, a window to jump out of yet. A concoction to be stirred and nothing to be stirred inside. Matches, dry grass. A forest, no wreath. Thought or nought.
Du gamla, Du fria. An illusion still.

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