The cat had tired of sport and yawned a cavernous ancestral sabre yawn, his moonlit eyes emeralds, borrowed from the Sun. And on the marble rolled, in straight lines around the curving sky.
REJ:- I'm sure it did, Idris, but do the pome...
The Wordsmith strikes the Anvil molten hot
And hammers words to be or to be not
As meteor writes sparks across the sky
Or lonely Comet past Creation shot
In dark below the blackened bellows heaving
As if a wordly loom life's sentence weaving
The furnace fires the figures from the clay
And animated words made flesh and breathing
Or up above as in a Summer's play
They flutter by the garden of the day
The Huntsman pins the beauty on the flower
And Mercy bids the others fly away
The forge, the furnace fire the light divine
The Anvil and the Garden earthly thine
And now and then the flickbook stills the page
And here the written diamonds from the mine.
REJ:- Da iawn Idris. You can't work out how to get rid of the new double spacing can you?
Idris:- I can only delete my self.
