The Wheel

This is the music,
This is the dance,
This is the child
And this is the trance.

Hear all their whistles,
A belt with blue bells,
The buyers are selling
The source of our spells.

I tried to swim
For the dim furthest shore,
But Spring tides returned me
To churning Death’s door.

Chinese lanterns,
Mountain-side dell,
Where it all went
I could no longer tell.

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